


Mortal Comforts

by katsukii



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canon X OC - Freeform, F/M, I suck at writing, Original Character - Freeform, please flay my skin off
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 25,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsukii/pseuds/katsukii
Summary: It's the simple, incredibly mortal comforts that make life bearable. Red Butler Arc.
Relationships: Undertaker (Kuroshitsuji)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	1. I: Cemetery Drive

Outside of the estate, the wind was howling an enraged requiem.

Leaves swept across the ground in maddened torrents, spiraling into the air and slamming back onto the cobblestone with all the force of an angry god. Trees bent in the heavy gusts; branches swayed dangerously and loose stones skipped melodically across the ground. Clouds overhead forebode a heavy rain, but the young woman could not bring herself to abandon her task. For six years, each month on the 26th, she walked to the same spot, laid the same flowers, and said the same prayers to a god she did not believe in.

She could not break the cycle now.

Emilynne sighed inwardly, wrapping her coat tighter around her petite figure. She already dreaded the cold, but she could not turn herself back to her estate just yet. It was only a few minutes' walk to the cemetery, not counting the time it took to pick a fresh handful of flowers, though that was hardly worth noting. Each time, she picked the same bouquet of daisies — his favorite. It was a simple, almost mindless task, snapping the stems midway down their stalks and plucking the remaining leaves from them. He always preferred the leaves, but she liked her flowers bare. Sometimes she thought she should leave them, but it was more authentic if she presented them in her traditional fashion, as she had done so many years before.

Emilynne trekked her way into the estate garden, passing winding rows of hedges and neatly-trimmed rose bushes as she made her way to the center. There stood a small field of white daisies, few left upright after the powerful winds had assaulted them. She pursed her lips, knelt down, and, careful not to dirty her dress in the mud, began her task of snipping the stalks. The wind snarled in her ears; her shoulders grew rigid as she picked. Soon enough, she had gathered a suitable handful of flowers, and she clutched them tightly to her chest as she rose, heels sinking into the mud under her weight.

She exited the garden with haste, spurred by the bitterly chilling wind at her back. It blew her coat collar around aggressively, slapping her jaw with the thick fabric. She shifted the flowers to one hand and with the other, now free, grabbed her collar and held it fast to her neck, ceasing its flailing. Her eyes wandered the horizon; thick, dark clouds rolled menacingly overhead. They loomed just above the treeline in an impressive display of power. It would pour buckets soon, and if she didn't hurry, she'd be caught in the thick of it. Her fingers curled tighter around the flower stalks and she hunched over just the slightest, sheltering the delicate petals from the wind as she broke into a sprint. Her gait was awkward, long dress catching between her legs, shoes sinking into the damp ground every other step. She could feel the weight of mud dragging down the bottom edges of her dress, which was otherwise light, spun of a high quality fiber that her mother had specially requested. Now it was soiled, but she had half a mind to care at present.

The first drops of rain fell to the earth as she rounded the drive corner to the city street. The cemetery sat on the outskirts, not farther than a stone's throw from her current position. Her breath came heavy as she pushed herself the last few paces, the entrance gates to the graveyard teasingly close to the exhausted woman. Muddy water splashed around her ankles as her heavy footfalls brought her through the grass. She released her coat collar and flung open the wrought-iron gate, grimacing as it issued a harsh creak.

The graveyard was a solemn place, untrimmed grass growing wildly around cobblestone-set tombs. Trees were scattered about the place in no particular pattern, some shielding obelisks from the rain, others with roots breaking through old tombstones. The trees here were thick, unlike the thin, wispy trees that bordered the drive to her estate. These ones were well fertilized, holding lots of life within their bark. Emilynne surmised that, had they not been situated in the midst of a cemetery, children would likely have fancied them for climbing. She smiled a little at the thought. Perhaps he had been one to climb trees.

His tombstone was simple, stark and almost naked in comparison to the elaborate plaques bordering his. While his parents had been well-off, they had both died well before he had, and thus had gotten the majority of the detail in theirs, courtesy of him. He knew his parents deserved honor, both in life and in death.

"Willis." Emilynne spoke loudly, but her voice was swallowed by the wind. She knelt, knees pressing into the cold, slick stone. "I hope you're resting well. You're with your God now. May He treat you as warmly as you deserve."

She chewed her lip as the brewing storm picked up, roaring ever louder in her ears. She knew the flowers would be instantly blown away if she set them down now, so she scrambled to find a loose rock to hold them in place. Her nails clawed at the stone, scraping over its wet surface, searching for a crevice. It seemed fruitless; his grave was still only six years old, not nearly old enough to crack. Desperate, she began to scoop handfuls of dirt from the ground, piling it into a mound on his grave and sticking the flowers dead in the center. They bent in the wind, but ultimately stayed put. With hands dirty and limbs tired, Emilynne pushed herself to her feet. Her dress was now coated in mud, from the bottom to the knee, and her hair had come undone from the otherwise neat bun she'd kept it in. Rainwater made her bangs cling to her face; her hair looked stringy and unkempt. Surely her servants would find her a sight when she returned home.

As she made to leave, she was startled by a sudden voice behind her.

"What's a lady like you doing here?"


	2. II: Watch Me Corrode

Emilynne's entire body convulsed with a shudder.

"I- I'm visiting a grave?" she replied, cocking her head to the side as if the answer wasn't apparent enough. Then, _ah, _she remembered - it was the beginning of a heavy storm and she, a lone noblewoman, was outside, soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and looking utterly hopeless.

Perhaps the question wasn't entirely unwarranted.

Emilynne turned promptly on her heel, the stone underfoot slick enough for her to spin easily on. Were she not as coordinated as she was lucky to be, she likely would've gone too far with her momentum and fallen over. Her dress whipped around her, sending a flurry of mud scattering to the ground. Deep brown eyes searched the cemetery; the darkness of the clouds choked out the sun and the steady rain made it difficult to see. Emilynne squinted through thick lashes, trying to make out the man ambling between the obelisks.

Before her stood a tall, impressively pale figure. His face was gaunt, eyes shielded by long, unruly bangs, and his lips were drawn up into an unsettling smile that chilled Emilynne's blood further. Her legs shook as she took a single step backwards; this man radiated bizarre energy. His long coat and equally long hair swayed in the wind as he walked, giving him an almost incorporeal look as he sauntered from tomb to tomb.

He traced a hand along the top of a protruding tombstone, caressing it almost lovingly. "Why in the midst of a storm? Something important to you?"

Emilynne swallowed the growing lump in her throat. "I- Yes. I daresay it's rather important. Beg pardon, but you yourself are out in this storm as well. Is that not equally as strange?"

The man gave a dry laugh, "well, now, I suppose it is."

Emilynne forced a smile, though it was weak; her lips drew up at the corners but fell flat in the center. Once more, she had neglected to tell any of her servants where she was going, and with all the recent chatter of Jack the Ripper preying upon lone women...

Her spine tingled. She dare not think of the possibilities.

"W-well, what brings you here?" she asked, poking around for answers to questions she really didn't want the answers to. _Looking at the graves of your victims? _

"Admiring my handiwork, I suppose."

Bingo.

Emilynne balked. "Y-you- Your what?"

"Well, someone has to design these sorts of things, you know. Caskets, tombstones, the like."

"You came to look at them in a storm? My, you're very... dedicated, aren't you."

The man shrugged. He seemed more bored than anything else, and Emilynne used this fact to attempt to quell her screaming nerves. If he was Jack the Ripper, he would've killed her by now. If he was Jack the Ripper, he wouldn't waste all this time talking and prancing about. Unless it was part of his sick game, the fun before the final hunt. And the rain - the rain would wash away all the blood. It was too perfect. He could dig a grave, scatter her body, and no one would be the wiser.

Emilynne turned her eyes to the sky, wishing she could pierce the clouds and bring back the sun.

"You're going to catch a cold if you stay out any longer," the man hummed, a singsong quality to his voice as he brought himself closer to the quivering woman. "Why not rest in my shop until it passes? Or be on your way home, at least. Very nasty weather, this is."

"Your shop?"

"The funeral parlor."

The lump returned to Emilynne's throat. "Ah. So you're the... the..."

"Undertaker."

"Y-yes, that. You. Very well. Smashing." She grinned lopsidedly; her eyes were nervous pools of crackling brown. Her hands found their way to her sides, tugging her coat tightly around her shivering form. The chill of the wind bit deep into her flesh, even through the layer of coat and dress. It felt as though the rain had penetrated into her bones, freezing her marrow to a thick ice; she wanted to go home, but home felt suddenly leagues away, and besides. She didn't want to lead a complete stranger to her estate, especially if there was a chance he would kill her. She'd much rather die in a shop, where the blood would be nigh impossible to fully clean up. Mentally, she chided herself for even thinking such a thing. But it was smart. Smarter than leading him to her family, to more victims.

"W-well. I'm quite chilly, and you must be too. Shall we go, then? To your... funeral parlor?" Emilynne offered, teeth chattering against her will.

"I'd be delighted. Follow me, then, miss."

"Emilynne," she murmured, though, once more, the wind drowned her voice. Out here, her screams would be silenced. Another good thing about returning to the city.

With fear gripping her heart, Emilynne forced her shuddering legs forward - one foot after the other, one step at a time. Through the grass, past the trees, beyond the obelisks. Through the gate, down the cobblestone. One step, two steps. As she walked, she seemed to curl in on herself more with each pace away from home; she shrunk into her coat, receding into its thick fabric. Her pallid face hid, mortified, under the brim of her soaked hat.

For all she knew, willingly, she was walking to her demise.


	3. III: A Beast in Repose

The shop was nothing like she expected it to be.

It was grim, to say the least. That much she did expect. The outside was striking enough, a finely carved casket resting outside, with a sign reading _Undertaker _in very blatant text and a skull adorning the center. From what Emilynne could glean, little light came from inside, and she shuddered to think what the interior of the parlor would house. Corpses? Rotting flesh? Bloody scalpels and tools for suturing wounds of the dearly departed?

She almost gagged.

"Well, this is me shop. Quaint, isn't it? Come on inside, now. It's much warmer there." The man - the Undertaker - cracked a wide smile as he pushed open the door. It creaked unceremoniously.

"Y-yes. Quaint..." she answered, shuffling dejectedly into the building after him. As she surmised, the inside was lit very dimly; few candles were scattered about the room, resting upon tables, coffins, and stacks of books. It seemed almost a fire hazard, but Emilynne held her tongue. She surveyed the room in silence, eyes flitting from casket to casket; all were closed, save for one upright that had its lid propped ever so slightly open. The inside was lined with a violet velour, and Emilynne had to admit, it did look properly comfortable.

Bookshelves lined the walls, chock full of texts that looked like they hadn't been moved in months. She strode closer, inspecting a thin film of dust that covered the spines. It tickled her nose and she backed away, not wanting to sneeze a cloud into the air. She could not detect any sign of rotting bodies - there was no strange odor, save for the scent of old paper - and she did not spy any bloody tools lying about, though she supposed any murderer would do well to hide their weapons.

"So, the cemetery. You were visiting someone, were you?" the man asked, turning slowly on his heel to cast a glance in Emilynne's direction. She shivered. It was unsettling not being able to see his eyes underneath his thick mess of hair.

"My... um, my late betrothed. He passed six years ago. You... might've known him. Or... worked with him."

"Betrothed, eh? Hm, I likely wouldn't remember him unless he was gravely injured... Those ones I get to do the real work with. I make them beautiful!"

Emilynne elected to ignore the comment. "Oh, it was... nothing of the sort. He passed of illness in the winter. He had a bad immune system, you see." She dropped her gaze to her boots, idly tapping her muddy toe against the floorboards. "Might you have a cloth I could clean these with?"

"You know... I might be able to remember him if you can show me a good laugh."

"I- I beg your pardon?"

"True laughter, miss. There's nothing better than that. I could tell you anything, I could, if only you can make me laugh," he said, adopting the same singsong trill he had in the cemetery. Emilynne cocked an eyebrow, though it went unnoticed under the brim of her hat, which was steadily dripping water onto the floor.

"Um, alright..." She faltered. This request was unexpected. "I... I entered ten puns in a pun contest hoping one would win, but no pun in ten did!"

There was a moment of silence, and Emilynne found herself questioning her delivery. Was it too forceful? Too slack? She had never considered herself good at humor; Willis was always the funny one of the two, and she would be lying if she said she hadn't stolen the joke from him. Still, she couldn't quite tell it like he did. His delivery was always perfect, always with the right intonation and the right amount of spark to get her to laugh. She doubted she had the same quality in herself.

All the same, the room was suddenly filled with a jovial chorus of laughter, and Emilynne subconsciously perked up a bit. The sound was nice, albeit strange, and it made the corners of her lips twitch up into a smile.

"Ah... thank you. Now then... Willis Frazier, wasn't it? I saw the name on the grave, I did. I do remember him... he was young, that one. Had sickness all throughout his body. Very frail."

And just like that, the smile was gone. "Yes... he was frail, wasn't he? He always tried to hide the sickness from me."

"I'm sorry for your loss, miss. Didn't mean to dredge up any memories, y'see."

"Emilynne," she said again, gaze rising from the floor to stare directly at the man. "I am called Emilynne."

"Lady Emilynne, my apologies. Now, about that cloth. I've got plenty, hee hee. Just pick whatever suits your fancy." He grinned, waving a hand vaguely at an end table that was covered in sheets of cloth. They were varying colors and textures; some soft, others rough, like wool. Emilynne milled through the cloths with a careful eye, eventually opting for a nice, absorbent cotton fiber.

"May I have a seat?"

"Wherever you like."

Emilynne glanced around, seeing precious little else to sit on but coffins, and with an inward sigh, she resigned herself to the oak one closest to her. She took her hat off, setting it down beside her legs, and went to work on cleaning her boots and dress to the best of her ability. The mud had just started to dry, caking into the dress' satiny fabric like water in a sponge. She dug at it with her nails, cracking it off like plaster. Each piece fell to the floor in chips, leaving behind dark stains on the light beige fabric. Her cheeks puffed in frustration; she doubted she would be able to get it clean enough to remove the stain altogether. Angrily, she continued to work, oblivious to the happenings around her.

Then her spine tingled with the feeling of being watched.

She lifted her head only to find that the Undertaker was gone, disappeared somewhere in the dark of the shop. A crawling sensation overwhelmed her skin and she dropped her cleaning cloth, too afraid to move. Her wary eyes traced slowly around the room, noting each shaded nook and cranny, searching, searching for any sign of the man. Just as she was ready to give up, turn tail and run, she heard the sound of footfalls echoing in a nearby hall. She canted her head; the Undertaker was there in the doorway, holding what appeared to be a large shawl. He offered a smile, which Emilynne awkwardly returned, trying not to disclose her fear.

"Brought this for you. You look bitter cold still," he mused, extending an arm with the shawl in hand. Gratefully, albeit slowly, she accepted it.

"T-thank you." With some hesitation, she shed her sopping wet coat and wrapped the soft, dry shawl around her shoulders, blissful warmth overtaking her. It was much needed, and she supposed she truly was thankful he had thought to bring such a thing for her. Jack the Ripper wouldn't take care of his victims like this. Jack the Ripper would just kill her and be done.

She looked down at her wet hat and its sad, drooping bow, and sharpened her ears to the sound of rain hammering the door outside. A sigh escaped her lips.

It would be a long wait before going home.


	4. IV: The Poisons of Thought

Home suddenly felt far more drab than it ever had been.

It had been some time since the storm had passed and Emilynne had walked herself home because, thank you, I've troubled you enough, I can make it back safely. The clouds had already parted, revealing a vast expanse of stars twinkling shyly in the distance. For some time, she had idled outside of the funeral parlor, admiring the night sky and the moon's dull glow, how it cast long shadows across the damp ground. But she had grown tired, and without a moment more's hesitation she turned heel and set course for home, too exhausted to even stop by the cemetery once more to check on her flowers.

Her estate was a far warmer place than the parlor had been. It was a grand space, bathed in the amber hues of hanging chandeliers and candelabras placed by the windows. The floor glittered a clean, polished marble; the glass stairs shone yellow under the chandelier's light. All around, it was an inviting sort of place, clean, empty, and light in color - the opposite of the funeral parlor. Where caskets were in the parlor, her estate had tables, decked out with delicate lace cloths underneath flower vases; where bookshelves resided, she had doorways, open to the dining area and study. Ornate sofas resided in the study, sitting atop thick, mandala-print rugs, each couch complete with soft peacock green pillows lining their backs.

Emilynne drew in a deep breath. The scent of fresh baking pastries wafted from the kitchen.

She removed her half-muddy boots, leaving them by the foyer, and grabbed a fistful of dress as she hiked it up around her ankles, determined not to track dirt through the house after her servants had so carefully cleaned it. Her quarters were on the second floor, and as quietly as she could manage, she tiptoed up the spiral staircase.

Her room sat directly opposite the front entrance to the house, situated on the southernmost wall. It was far less grandiose than the rest of the estate, but it was still quite a large room, prim and proper, befitting of a lady. It had an elegant bed stationed in the middle of the room, sheets neatly made and pillows fluffed, curtains drawn and tied to the tall bedposts. A gilded mirror stood at the western wall, reflecting the defeated image of a dirty, unkempt, and exhausted Emilynne. She glared at herself, detesting the wispy curls of hair that stuck out of place.

With a yawn, she tossed her hat down onto her vanity and the shawl followed. It crumpled onto the table in a sad, damp heap. She turned on her wet socks, rummaged through her wardrobe in search of nightwear. After some careful deliberation, she settled on a silky white nightdress, and happily shed her muddy garments in replacement for her nice, dry sleepwear. She wanted to resign herself to bed and read for a bit, but fatigue had long since overtaken her bones, and, spent, Emilynne crawled underneath her sheets.

Sleep took her all too quick.

******

The next few days passed in a blur.

Emilynne continued her life as usual, tending to her garden, sipping tea, eating luxuriously cooked meals courtesy of her servants. She carried on a mundane conversation with her mother about new silks being imported and made secret arrangements with her servants to clean the mud from her dress without informing her parents of the fiasco. She bathed, scrubbing every last bit of mud from under her nails. She practiced piano and allowed herself to attend cocktail parties hosted at her estate, exchanging casual banter with the bland personalities flowing in and out of the house.

But she could not stop thinking about the strange man from the cemetery.

The thought hit her in the midst of a conversation during the second party, and she had nearly dropped her glass. It was the first time in years that she felt she had missed someone - no, missed wasn't the proper word - and, yes, sir, she was quite alright, just startled by the thought of how lovely this wine tasted, thank you. She excused herself promptly, under the guise of a woman who needed to freshen up her makeup, and with haste she retreated to her quarters, glass still in hand.

The shawl still sat in a heap on her vanity, and she allowed her fingers to travel along its creases in a curious fashion. It carried the scent of old paper, much like the funeral parlor. It had been a welcome warmth that night, much unlike the heavy, cold twill of her coat -

The coat she had left there.

A strange spur of excitement began to brew in the pit of her stomach. It would be an excuse to go back to the parlor, chat up the strange man one more time. He had such an odd aura, something Emilynne couldn't quite put her finger on, but he was friendly, and friendly was good. Emilynne had few friends left, and she wanted to hold onto the ones she still had.

Gathering herself, she made a choice. Come next morning, she would head out into town and find the funeral parlor. With a confident smile, she downed the rest of her wine.

Perhaps she would enjoy the rest of the party tonight.


	5. V: Six Years in Crowded Rooms

Sunlight sliced through the ornate curtains in thick beams, casting hazy light onto Emilynne's sleeping visage.

She squirmed, the influx of light unwelcome in the midst of her slumber. But if the sun was awake, it surely meant it was time for her to start her day, and unwilling, she stirred, eyes droopy with fatigue.

Emilynne slipped out from under her sheets with a grunt, joints creaking as she fumbled for her slippers. Ordinarily, she would be assisted by her servants in dressing and tidying up her appearance, but not today. She had woken too early, missing the servants by just under an hour, and she was grateful for this. She did not quite like being poked and stared at like some laboratory specimen under a harsh examining light.

Her wardrobe held a vast assortment of dresses for all different occasions, most of them in neutral beige tones or silky whites. Emilynne fingered the dresses gently, like flipping through a book - no, not this one, certainly not this one. At last she landed on a long, gauzy beige dress with white trim and a matching pair of silk gloves, and her lips pursed in a smile. This would do.

Tightening her corset on her own was a bit of a chore, but Emilynne had gotten used to doing it over the years. She had become a right independent woman, though she would accept the help from her servants when it was offered, and especially so in front of her mother. Being a proper lady was her mother's utmost triumph, and she had so harshly pressed it upon Emilynne growing up that she often felt smothered by all the menial things she was expected to do. Smile over tea, laugh at men's jokes. Offer coy bats of the eyes, sip wine elegantly. Curtsy, but don't bend down too far and risk looking promiscuous. Never clean your own messes. Don't get dirty or pick flowers. Wear the proper hat for the proper occasion - not that ghastly brown flat you always wear, Emilynne, good gracious!

She sighed and finished the lacing.

By the time she was dressed, makeup and hair styled immaculately, she could just begin to hear the sounds of the servants stirring down below. Somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle had begun to whistle, and she knew that she had precious little time to sneak out of the house or be sat down to tea by her mother and thus be stuck another hour. She completed her outfit quickly, plopping her usual brown hat atop her head and wrapping the borrowed shawl tight around her otherwise bare shoulders, and then commenced easing herself down the stairs, careful not to make a sound.

Her boots sat in the foyer, polished to a sheen and free of any of the last week's mud. She picked up her dress and slid each foot into the proper shoe, tying the laces with some difficulty; it was always a task she struggled with, having very little coordination. Plus, the slipperiness of her gloves made it difficult to grasp her laces firm enough to tie truly tight. _Oh well_, she supposed. No one would see her shoes anyhow, so what did it matter if they were tied or not?

Half satisfied with her work, Emilynne turned her eyes to the grand double doors holding her back from the outside world, and she puffed her chest up with a certain type of determination. She would spend not a moment more in this dull estate. Throwing caution to the wind, she pulled open one of the sturdy mahogany doors and slipped into the crisp outside air, filling her lungs with a deep, whole breath. Birds twittered to one another from nearby hedges, flitting back and forth with beaks full of straw and twigs - leftover debris from the storm. While the estate drive had been cleared by the servants, the garden was still left wanting, a bit of a wreck with its plants wilted and lopsided. At least it made good tools for the birds.

Emilynne drew the shawl closer, nails digging into its tweed fabric. There was a chill in the air, the first coming signs of autumn, and she briefly pondered if she should go back inside and opt for a heavier coat, one that would surely provide more protection against the wind. But she realized she could not turn back or else risk being spotted, so she pressed on, making her way down the estate drive as quickly as she dared.

*****

The city was lively in the morning, which was a sight Emilynne had not beheld in quite some time. Commonfolk skipped from corner to corner, tipping hats and exchanging smiles; shop owners beckoned people in from the cold with their open doors, advertising their wares. Children tugged at parents' sleeves, inquiring about the newest toys from Funtom and could I have that one please, please, mummy? Emilynne almost smiled, though she could not let herself get too caught up in the moment lest she forget her purpose for trekking all the way out so early in the morning.

"Pardon me, sir, if I could have a moment of your time," she said, flagging down an older gentleman who was passing by with his wife in tow, "but might you know where the funeral parlor is?"

"Sure thing, miss. Just follow this road here-" He waved his arm to the left, "-and it should take you straight to it."

"Thanks much. Do have a good day." She gave a small, rushed curtsy, catching the twinkling eyes of his wife before smiling and turning promptly on her heel. Loose strands of hair swished around her neck as she turned.

*****

Sure enough, her short walk down the cobblestone path led her to the parlor, which had acquired a nice smattering of cobwebs in the time since she had last seen it. It seemed different in the sunlight, less harsh, but still not at all inviting. She could now clearly make out the lettering, its odd purple hue and shimmering gold embellished lining. She supposed it was not atrocious, but not at all the sort of place she would ever have seen herself going in the past.

Emilynne extended a hand, the other still clutching the shawl, and knocked thrice on the door.

_Please answer._

Silence.

_Please._

"'Ello? Do come in, now. Shop is open."

A twinge of excitement lit up in Emilynne's chest. She pushed the thick door open, grimacing at its issued creak, and she donned a sheepish smile in preparation of seeing the man. Was it embarrassing to be back here? Should she just pretend they never met and go about her life as usual? No, at the very least, she wanted to retrieve her coat. Yes, that was why she was here. Damn her mind for letting that detail slip.

"H-hello. Again. Unless you don't remember me. I'm-"

"Ah, Lady Emilynne. Pleasure to see you. What brings you here on this fine morning, hee hee?"

"Well, I-" She faltered. "I came to retrieve my coat. It occurs to me I have left it, and I would like it back. I brought your shawl as well. It is not in my nature to keep others' belongings," she explained, tipping her nose up in a proud, if not haughty, display. "Unless it is a gift. But this belongs to you, and so here it is."

The Undertaker laughed - a bright, joyful sound. "You went to all this trouble to return a shawl? Now, now, _that's _funny. You could've kept it, you know. And ah, your jacket. Yes, I 'ave it here, I do. Nice and dry now. Bit wrinkly though, I do apologize."

Emilynne flushed. "It is not so odd! I am simply doing the proper thing, and- oh, nevermind that. Yes, thank you. I will have it pressed when I return home, so don't worry about the wrinkles."

"Didn't cross me mind. Now, if that's all, I bid you good day. Unless you're in need of fitting for a lovely coffin of mine, hee hee..."

"Well, actually- No, no, that will be all. I will see you again soon," she said, giving a curt nod as if affirming her own words. "Or, not soon. Sometime. You know, I do quite like this shop. It could do with windows though. Have you ever thought of that? Some natural light would do this place good." She was rambling now, and she did not quite know why. But it was embarrassing, and with haste in her step she handed over the shawl and replaced it with her heavy coat, fingers playing idly with the buttons.

Before she left altogether, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Words lingered on her tongue; she debated - speak or not?

"Ahem. I will be returning to the cemetery later this evening, if you would like to stop by and chat. I bid you farewell."

And with that, face red and hands trembling, Emilynne exited the shop.


	6. VI: If I Go

It felt much like there was hardly time enough to sit down to tea.

Emilynne found herself swept up in a flurry of activities after returning to the estate, first chided by her mother for disappearing without a word, then promptly whisked to lunch with a wealthy Duke whom her mother was trying to pose as a suitor. 1 o'clock was afternoon tea time, then 2 o'clock was a break for her father to smoke in the study (or in Emilynne's case, practice piano), and 4 o'clock was pre-evening dance lessons. Emilynne already knew how to dance; she was quite good at it, but her mother insisted upon taking lessons anyhow, and Emilynne knew better than to argue the point. So she complied, turning and stepping in time, but lacking the smile on her face that was usually present when she danced. There was so much more on her mind now, so much to keep her adrenaline racing. Had she really done this? Asked this near stranger to meet her tonight?

Her mother would think it scandalous.

Of course, Emilynne elected to tell no one about her evening plans. She figured she would simply dress in her formal attire, waltz around their evening cocktail party as if enjoying herself, then don her coat and slip out the back when no one was looking at her. If the party ran late, as they usually did, Emilynne would have no trouble blending back into the crowd upon her return. Compared to the proud, elegant figures of wealth that so often attended the parties, Emilynne would not stand out much, and for once, she enjoyed this facet. It would play well to her success should she truly decide to go.

That being said, she could not stop herself from grappling with the idea. As she sat down to supper and sipped at her champagne, she found her hands trembling with anticipation. Should she go? Or should she simply stay at home, stuck in the confines of her estate with people that did not interest her in the least? No, that wasn't appealing, but even so, the little, nervous voice in her head would not silence itself no matter how she tried. It wasn't so much a voice, she supposed, as it was a feeling. An urge. A desire to run and hide, contrasted with the exact opposite - a desire to run out into the world, defy all expectation and rule, and meet with this strange man who piqued her curiosity.

"So, Emilynne, what did you think of the Duke?"

She nearly choked on her dinner.

"T-the Duke?" she repeated, forcing herself to swallow a painful mouthful of seafood. "Yes, well, he was ordinary. Quite bland, really. And I did not like his mustache. I should think he would do better without it."

While her father gave a low chortle, her mother expressed a lofty sigh. "Emilynne, dear. You must know that a woman of your status is to marry. Come, now, I'm trying to find the best matches for you. Surely one of them has your eye?"

"Mother, they're all boring. Really. I don't fancy any of them. Besides, they all stare at me like a piece of meat, sizing me up. It's abhorrent!"

Isla sighed once more, frustration written upon the lines in her forehead. "Daughter, sooner or later, we must all grow up. This is your duty. Besides, the Duke is a wealthy man, and his status would be befitting of you. Consider it, won't you? I think he took quite a shine to you."

Emilynne would do no such thing, but to appease her mother, she put on a polite smile and replied, "yes, of course."

Dinner dragged on in silence, Emilynne's brain now swirling with thoughts of the Duke and his ridiculous mustache. She did not care for him in the least, and it was atrocious to think her own mother would approve of such a pairing. Did she really expect her own daughter to stoop so low? But then, she supposed, it was what her mother had done to gain her position as a noblewoman. Really, she was lucky not to have been born into servitude. She had her father to thank for that, a rebellious man who had taken a shine to his maid, Isla, and refused to marry anyone but her. Ever since then, Isla had acted the very picture of grace, a perfect noblewoman, and Emilynne guessed that was why the standards for her were so high. Isla simply could not stand anything resembling the common life she once had before.

"Supper was lovely. Thank you," Emilynne said to the chef as she excused herself from the table. "I must go tidy up now. The party will start soon and I mustn't be late." In reality, she wanted more time to plan her escape - and her outfit. It needed to be dark, so she could move under the cover of night without being detected, so her white and beige dresses were out of the picture. It needed to be formal, but not too formal so as to restrict her movement. She would have to be able to at least move at a slow jog, just in case she was spotted and had to make a break for the cemetery. Giddy, she walked herself upstairs and dashed to her room, eager to search through her garments.

It was a childlike happiness that overtook her as she flicked through her clothes, a careful eye comparing the fabrics to one another - silk or cotton? Pleats or flounces? Oh, but she couldn't be caught up in the detail; the accessibility was far more important. Silk was more comfortable but cotton was more flexible. That narrowed her dresses down considerably. There was one navy blue cotton dress she owned, and she ran the pads of her fingers overtop of its silky neckline. The best of both worlds. She smiled, picked it out of the wardrobe, and laid it across her bed, marveling at the details woven into its flounces. There were small gold specks, like stars, that led in curving lines around the base of the dress, edging up towards the neckline, which brought it all together with its bold golden silk. It was a beautiful dress with expert craftsmanship, and Emilynne envied whatever seamstress had the ability to make such a garment. It was a skill she would never possess.

With the help of her servant, Lottie, Emilynne dressed herself in the outfit and picked out some accessories - this one, m'lady, this necklace will surely match the color of your dress the best - then went to work on styling her hair, though Emilynne refused to have it in anything but a bun. It was her traditional style, and Lottie settled for simply curling her front locks to add some "much needed, pardon me" pizzazz. She did not mind the comment; she had always been quite happy for her hair to be simple, and she could hardly get mad at Lottie for noticing.

Downstairs, the regal clock chimed nine, and Emilynne snapped herself to attention. The party was starting, and soon, guests would be arriving. She touched up her hair - her bangs seemed to refuse to stay in place - and then floated down the staircase, surprised to see her mother talking to the Duke from earlier.

Audibly, she groaned.

"Lady Emilynne," the Duke began, but Emilynne would have none of it.

"Darling, I'm parched. Could you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of chardonnay?" she asked, putting on her most polite act and batting her lashes. The Duke smiled, said a quick "of course, my lady," and went about trying to find a servant who could pour him some of the requested drink. Once he was out of earshot, Emilynne's tone fell sour. "Mother. Must you really have invited _him?"_

"Sweetheart, it's simply the best thing I can do for you. He's quite a gentleman, if you'll give him the chance. My, he was talking up a storm about how radiant you are, and I should quite think-"

Emilynne shut her ears to the rest of her mother's words. She did not want to hear how the Duke thought she was lovely and would make such a pretty wife. _Wife. _Emilynne wanted to be more than that. She did not want to simply marry off for status and bear children because it was her godforsaken duty to do so. She wanted to _live, _not just survive. And truly, the best thing for her, mother, was sneaking out to hold a real conversation with someone who was more than just a pretty, chiseled face and bags of money.

She could not say so, though, so she held her tongue and bided her time. Soon, the party would be alive with all sorts of guests, and Emilynne could escape her mother, the Duke, and her estate. She could steal away into the darkness, go somewhere interesting, somewhere that didn't bore her half to death. Emilynne knew she was impulsive, but she couldn't help it.

_This_ was living.


	7. VII: If You Stay

The moon sat low in the night sky, casting the elegant silhouette of the Abrahms estate in a long shadow across the drive.

Emilynne had beheld this sight many times, both as a child and an adult, but it seemed somehow more beautiful now than it had before. Had her parents looked at this same moon, this same shadow, and realized how gorgeous it was? Humbled, she allowed herself one glance back at the imposing frame of the estate. As trapped as she could feel by her home, it was a beautiful specimen of architecture, its strong columns lining the porch like guardians and its gilded door frame reflecting the twinkle of the stars. Warm light seeped through the parted curtains by the windows, washing over rose bushes and igniting the closing blooms in a flickering crimson. Emilynne thought she would quite like to pluck one and keep its color forever, that wavering red and yellow brought about by dancing candle flames.

Time seemed to disappear as she walked alone down the drive, boots crunching in the gravel underfoot. Each step resonated in the stillness of the air, echoing in her ears like a song. She could think only of the people in the estate, chatting over wine and smiling their perfect smiles, living like little dolls according to their status. No one dared step outside of the bounds set for them, and thus they simply only existed, not lived. To live was to risk, and no one there risked a thing - except for drinking too much and saying the wrong thing.

But this - _this _was living. Emilynne's veins surged with a determination that spread like wildfire, making her hands and spine tingle. If her mother were to find out anything about this, she would likely be kept under lock and key, never to set foot outside without some sort of overbearing escort present. Still, even with that threat looming, like a shadow creeping up on her, Emilynne could not bear to resign herself to a routined life at the estate. She craved variation, craved the majestic pull of strangers and the rush of defying her boundaries. A giddy smile plucked at her lips.

She was doing this.

She was doing something she shouldn't, plunging herself into an unknown realm with all the wonder of an excited child, only she had lived enough to know how wonderful wonder _really _was. Her blood felt like stardust, twinkling; she could've sworn she was glowing with positivity as she made her way down the drive, past the gates. She was invisible - a ghost, floating across the cobblestone, eyes alight with the desire to take life by the skin of its teeth. Her heart hammered in her chest; she thought it would explode. With the stars as her witness, she swore she would hold on to this feeling as long as she could. A giggle bubbled in her throat and she laughed aloud at the image of herself: a lone noblewoman striding through the night air, relishing its cool breezy touch on her cheeks and nose. This was utterly unheard of. It was far beneath her status to be waltzing around without so much as a care in the world, but there was no mother here to scold her, no Duke waiting to take her hand in marriage without her say. There were no rules, no people, just the crisp wind and its lonesome moan as it snaked through the trees.

*****

Emilynne cut the corner sharply to the cemetery, trudging through thick grass and letting her expensive gown drag in the dewey blades behind her. The gates were ajar; one swung idly in the breeze, groaning metallically. Even this noise, one that would otherwise make her grimace, sounded beautiful now, for it was as opposite the sound of the Duke's pompous voice as any sound could be, and she delighted in it. She sashayed past the open gate, though not as gracefully as she would've liked, for her toe caught the lip of a crumbled tombstone and sent her flailing into the cemetery, fighting for her balance with every passing second. She squealed in surprise and caught herself against an obelisk, palms connecting harshly with the polished stone. They began to ache immediately. She chewed her bottom lip as she righted herself and rubbed her sore hands together; it was good no one was around to see such an embarrassing blunder.

"My, that's quite the dress you have there."

Emilynne's face flushed with heat. "I- well, yes, there is a party being hosted at my estate tonight," she explained to the blackness of the cemetery, trying desperately to play off her near-fall with grace. Though her eyes had not yet fully adjusted, she recognized the voice, and it only made her cheeks simmer more red. "It was easiest to slip outside when I blended with the crowd."

There was a giggle from somewhere to her right, and Emilynne whirled about, dress swirling like a cloud around her form. "Almost a nasty fall you had. Such a picture of elegance but so clumsy. Methinks the lady got carried away," came the teasing trill of a voice. Emilynne puffed her cheeks out in an indignant display.

"M-mind your tongue!" she snapped, though she was not angry so much as she was embarrassed. "It was nothing but a small blunder. These stones are hardly taken care of, I see. I imagine anyone would trip over them in their state, especially in the dark. I think it's hardly fair of you to laugh at me."

"I would never laugh atyou, m'lady. Just near you, hee hee. Besides, if you were in any real danger, I would've helped."

Emilynne squinted into the dark; her face was the very picture of frustration, cheeks puffed, nose upturned, lips drawn into a petulant pout. She could just now begin to make out the silhouette of the Undertaker, a lithe shadow lingering about the obelisks, silver hair swishing under the starlight. He, too, was elegant, in an odd sort of way. Emilynne could not understand how he could make his way about without tripping; with his eyes shrouded by his mess of hair, surely he had a hard time seeing! She shook her head, befuddled.

"Would you, now. Well, I should suppose that if Jack the Ripper were to set upon me you would sweep in and save me? That is real danger, yes?"

"You have but one soul, and I think you take good care of it. You are capable, my lady. No Jack the Ripper could ever have the upper hand against you, hee hee. Now, why did you ask me out here, Lady Emilynne?"

"I-" She allowed a timed pause, though really it was her attempt at searching for words. "I was... I was curious. You know, I used to think you were Jack the Ripper, but now I am quite certain you are not. And you intrigue me. So I asked you here because you are far more interesting than the whole of the folks at my estate combined." 

The Undertaker gave a small laugh. "Quite the compliment, Lady Emilynne."

"I should think not! It's merely a statement, nothing more. Do not conflate intrigue with compliments."

"Oh, of course not," he trilled, swaying between the graves as he walked. "So, you find me interesting, do you? Hee hee hee! Well, I find you funny. And that makes you right interesting too, it does."

The young woman flushed, grateful for the cover of night. "Yes, well. I suppose I am. But I am a lady, so do not even think of laughing at my blunders! It would be very crass of you, and I would be quite upset."

"Wouldn't dream of it. True laughter at the expensive of another's misfortune isn't laughter at all, now, is it?"

"N-no, I should think not," she replied, sore palms finding the center of her dress and smoothing its wrinkles. She found herself suddenly very self-conscious, cheeks bubbling with heat as she reflected on the woman she used to be. Yes, after the death of her fiance, she became a cruel sort, laughing at the poor simply because they were less fortunate than her. It was an awful sort of persona, but it had gotten her through the difficult times; she had a built a wall no one could knock down.

Now, in the still night air, listening to the ghostly echoes of music from the nearby city, she felt very exposed.

"The music is lovely this time of night. A perfect requiem for all these departed souls."

"Yes." Emilynne nodded in agreement; her fingers tugged idly at her gloves. _Stay. _"I... it's getting late. I should be on my way. I will see you tomorrow, then?"

"If you wish it. I'll be at me shop. I've a few interesting customers I must attend to, hee hee."

"I see. Well, I bid you goodnight." Emilynne offered a smile, albeit a weak one, and began on her way to the gates. Her heart lurched into her throat. Why did she get the feeling he was excited about this too? Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Canting her head to the side, she stole one last look back at the pale man.

"Oh, and Undertaker? I quite fancy these nighttime meetings. Shall we do this more often?"

"Of course, Lady Emilynne. It would be a pleasure."


	8. VIII: I Would Even Wait All Night

A late-night quiet descended over the Abrahms estate as Emilynne finished stuffing her pack with dishware.

Two teacups, two saucers, and some lace doily napkins just for good measure. She wrapped them all gently in cloth, so as not to chip the delicate china, and set them carefully in the bottom of her bag, overtop of which she layered another cloth for added precaution. Then came the canister of tea - Earl Grey - snuggled tightly into the pack's corner. Everything was cushioned properly, no chance of breaking even if she were to run. It was perfect.

Emilynne had thought this all through. Mother was asleep by this time, and father was in the study, smoking a pipe, flipping through leaflets of paperwork that were due the next morning. He would be too distracted to see Emilynne sneak out, most likely, but the study neighbored the front entrance to the estate and so Emilynne had decided the back exit was her best plan of escape. She slung her pack over her shoulder, looking much like a peddler, and slipped her petite form through the one glass door she cracked open, shutting it gently behind her without so much as a creak.

In the cemetery, the two sipped tea over a pleasant conversation about work. The tea had gone somewhat lukewarm, but the Undertaker was a good sport about it, saying it still tasted just fine. Emilynne's proud declaration of _"good, I brewed it myself, you know"_ earned her a lighthearted laugh, and her lips drew into a blithe grin. Next time, she thought, she would bring tea biscuits.

The next evening, Emilynne rehearsed several jokes she had borrowed from gentlemen at her parents' last cocktail party. She performed them with all the expertise of a practiced comedian, and she delighted at the thundering, almost strident guffaws she had elicited. At one joke in particular, he laughed so hard he had begun to cry, and Emilynne too found herself shaking with laughter, ears flushing red at the tips.

The evening after that, it was pastries and chamomile tea. This time, she had walked to the cemetery fast enough to keep everything warm, and the two swapped stories over the crunching of biscuits. These, she confessed, she did not bake, for she was highly incompetent in the kitchen and could scarcely make even a simple lunch for herself. But next time, she promised, she would bring something homemade - _"as long as it doesn't put me in me own grave - oh, come now, I was teasing, Lady Emilynne!"_

Now came the dreaded day of cooking. She had already prepared by tying an apron about her waist and setting out a mishmash of ingredients, but she had little idea of how to prepare them, and she had a half a mind to ask her servants for assistance. No, this had to be done on her own. Her brows creased with focus as she surveyed her layout, eyes flitting from apples to flour to sugar, and oh my, was she ever out of her element. She wanted to make apple fritters but had no idea of how to do so, and settled instead for cooking a simple chicken-stock stew, which she figured would be quite hard to make a mistake out of. She cut onions, garlic, carrots, and celery, cooked them in the stock, and added roast chicken, which she admittedly did not prepare but could pretend, for the sake of the dish, that she _did _know how to make such a fine roast bird.

She arrived with a canister of stew, a canister of tea, two teacups, two bowls, two spoons, and some overly thick cookies she had attempted to bake. A plush blanket was tucked over her shoulder, and when asked what she brought it for, she flashed a knowing smile and draped it across the flattest section of ground she could find.

"I figure this will be more comfortable than standing - or, in your case, sitting atop the tombstones..." she explained, making herself at home on the blanket. She began to rummage through her pack, pulling out dishware, utensils, and the containers of stew and tea. She poured three quarters of a cup for each of them, added a spot of honey to hers, and went to work on pouring the stew, trying to siphon even amounts into each bowl. "If this is dreadful, please do try not to laugh. It has been some time since I cooked."

The Undertaker merely smiled, sat down across from Emilynne. His long hair draped about his shoulders like ethereal wisps, ghosts dancing in the calm of the night.

Emilynne sipped her tea in silence, eyes trained deftly upon the Undertaker as he lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. She watched, breath bated; he pulled a face.

"Oh, no. It's that bad, is it?" She flushed; her expression fell. "Goodness. How embarrassing, I-"

_"Bahahaha!_ Oh, Lady Emilynne! Your expression was- hee hee!" he chortled, cheeks going red with the force of his laughter. "I was messing with you. It's quite good. I just wanted to poke some fun at you."

Emilynne's blush deepened. _"Sir!_ How boorish!" she exclaimed, feigning hurt. "I find that most unfunny. Cruel of you to meddle with my feelings that way." Her face hardened, a sharp edge to her dark eyes - and then the persona fractured, altogether falling away as she laughed. The sound of their tittering filled the night air, and Emilynne just about dropped her teacup as she clutched at her chest, lungs fighting for each breath. They sat there for some time, hiccuping with laughter and jesting at one another about the meal, which only made Emilynne blush - and laugh - harder.

"My! You are, without a doubt, _the _most insensitive gentleman I have ever met," she teased once she had calmed down, face still alight with soft crimsons. Her trembling fingers grasped her teacup firmly; she brought it to her lips, though she did not drink. "I quite fancy you."

_Mistake. _Why did she say that? She trained her eyes on the sloshing liquid inside her teacup, studying its rippling rings with intensity.

"What was that, Lady Emilynne? Afraid I didn't quite hear you over me own laughter. I do apologize."

"Oh, it was nothing. Just remarking on how my tea has gone cold," she explained, dropping a hand to smooth out her dress. It was a fine silk, and it felt chilly underneath her palms, like dragging a hand through stagnant water. "Well, then. I've about had my fill of the cold for one night. Shall we meet again tomorrow then?"

"Why not come by me shop? I've been busy lately, y'see."

"Ah. If I can make the time, I will certainly think about it. Perhaps we could chat over lunch."

"I like the sound of that. Tomorrow, then, m'lady. Do get home safe."

Emilynne sipped the last of her tea and rose, making to pack up all her items. She collected the empty cups and bowls, wrapped them in cloth, and placed them snugly in her pack.

"Farewell, then, Undertaker. As always, I have enjoyed myself this evening. Thank you for your company."

She pursed her lips in a smile, gathered the blanket from the ground, and left, heart beating so loudly in her ears she feared he would hear it.


	9. IX: The Light Behind Your Eyes

She arrived at 12 o'clock sharp - the picture of punctuality.

The shop was empty by then, the morning influx of customers gone and dealt with. The Undertaker milled about the caskets, scrawling names on leaflets of paper and checking over his things to do - yes, that body was adequately stitched together, and that one there was prim and proper for a burial the next day. All things looked sharp, and he was quite pleased with himself, rightfully so as he strode to answer the knock at the shop door.

"Ah, Lady Emilynne. Do come in," he said, ushering her inside the shop with a smile and a flick of his wrist. He had tidied the place up a bit since her last visit; gone were the various stacks of books strewn about the tables and floor, the offending tomes replaced back onto the shelves from whence they came. Additionally, he had done a spot of dusting, cleaning the thick layers from the bookshelves - the ones that made Emilynne sneeze - and he had cleared out some cobwebs that had been spun onto the chandelier, though he had, admittedly, quite liked the way it had looked. Such a shame, but cleaning was long overdue.

"Undertaker. Always a pleasure," she replied, bending into a small curtsy before shuffling into the parlor. Such formalities were usually done away with, but Emilynne had a public reputation to maintain, and so she found herself rehearsing all the things her mother told her were befitting of a proper lady. Always curtsy, address people by title and name. Smile, but not with teeth; teeth was too overbearing. If you are to laugh, laugh lightly; a lady must remain elegant at all times.

Such rubbish it was.

"Have you got any new jokes today, m'lady?" he asked, lacing his fingers together as he canted his head to the side, intrigued.

"Why, yes. Alright, here's one I particularly like. Have you been to the new restaurant, Karma?" She allowed a timed pause, wiggled her eyebrows as if saying, _go on, respond._

"No."

"Rather odd, that. There's no menu. You get what you deserve!" And with that, she let out a crack of laughter, moreso at her delivery than the joke itself. Yes, she had begun to find herself quite entertaining, especially with the Undertaker's habit of reminding her how amusing he found her humor to be. It was a dangerous combination, that. It inflated her ego, and the last thing a woman of her stature needed was an ego. To the world, women became dangerous when they got a taste of how powerful they could truly be. She reveled in it.

The Undertaker giggled, a hysteric sort of sound. "Ehehehe! Not bad, that one! You always surprise me. I do so love that about you."

Emilynne flushed lightly and distracted herself from the heat rising in her cheeks by studying the engraving on a nearby casket. "Th-this is beautiful. Do you carve these yourself?"

"Aye. That one was a special request. Must say, I don't try my hand at carving very much, but I do quite like how it turned out. Might do it more often. What do you say?"

"I think it's lovely. You have a talent," she replied, smiling in earnest. Emilynne traced the etchings with the tips of her fingers, following their smooth curves and loops with the awestruck look of a child discovering a maze. It really was skillful work; very detailed and, daresay, nitpicky, with each edge sanded to a soft bevel. She scarcely knew the Undertaker could take such care in his work - but then, she supposed, suturing wounds was a delicate job as well, and he had clearly proved himself proficient in that regard. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did.

"So, Lady Emilynne. The day is yours. Where shall you have us go?"

The woman smiled sheepishly, revealing a woven basket she had been so carefully hiding behind her back. "We needn't go anywhere unless you wish it. I've brought lunch with me. I will say, this I did not make myself, so do not praise me for how good it is going to be. This was crafted by my estate's servants, and might I say, our chef has quite some skill."

"Ah, what a treat. Lady Emilynne's estate cooking. I doubt it will topple yours," he said, grinning.

"Do not tease me so! I know I'm a mediocre chef. You're awfully rude," she jeered, trying in vain to conceal a returned smile as she set the basket down on the closest coffin. With steady hands, she plucked a set of china from the basket's interior, setting two cups and saucers on the coffin alongside two plates and each a set of silverware. Then came the napkins, followed suit by bundled portions of food that she had retained - in secret - from her servants. In the bundles were lamb samosas, inspired by the recent curry competition hosted for the Queen.

"My, you certainly came prepared. Such a proper little date this is." 

"Date?" Emilynne coughed the word rather than spoke it. _Was _this meant to be a date? She loathed to think it would be anything else, so with as straight a face she could muster, she said, "yes, I suppose so. I do try my best to be prepared for all things."

Inside, her heart had begun to beat faster, signaling the adrenaline that would soon surge throughout her body like wildfire. She felt her ears grow hot; her hands began to sweat. She was nervous, and she feigned indifference to it, though in the back of her mind she knew exactly why.

Yes, without a doubt, she fancied this man.

"My, my. I've never seen food like this before. What is this, exactly?" Undertaker asked as he inspected a samosa, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. He turned it from side to side, as if examining it.

"I believe they're meant to be with inspiration from the curry competition. After the huge success of the curry buns, mother demanded as close a recreation as our chef could get."

"Were you there at the festival, then?"

"No. Mother went, but I stayed. I had lessons to tend to."

"I heard it was quite the event, hee hee. Some trouble with a bad spice," he trilled, biting the corner off his samosa. The dough was thick, but not uncomfortably so, and the filling inside seemed to melt away into his tongue. All in all, it was quite delicious, and the grin on his face reflected his satisfaction.

"You were right, m'lady. Your chef is indeed a talented one."

Emilynne nodded in agreement, chewing a mouthful of her own samosa. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, swallowed her food. "Yes, he truly is. I only wish some of that talent could rub off on me."

"Everyone has their own talent, Lady Emilynne."

"And what's mine, then?" she inquired, curious. Her eyes twinkled as she stared across at the Undertaker.

"Making people smile," he replied without missing a beat. The simper on his face had turned softer somehow, more intimate. Coquettish, even. Emilynne averted her gaze, turning her head to the side so he could not glean the fresh blush spreading across her cheeks.

"How ridiculous," Emilynne huffed, folding her arms across her chest in a defensive manner. Yes, it was ridiculous. She didn't make people smile. Her mother nearly always wore a stern expression, that terribly obsequious woman, and her father rarely smiled either, always so absorbed in his work that he could barely exchange words with her. She had made Willis smile only when she picked fresh flowers for him; aside from that, he seemed awfully melancholy, always stuck reflecting on his condition and the frailty of his life. The people close to her never smiled. Only he did.

And then it happened. A tumble of words.

"I fancy you."


	10. X: Until We Find Our Way

A thick, disturbing silence descended across the room, punctuated only by the sound of church bells outside chiming 1 o'clock.

She had picked the worst time to say it. The words had bubbled into her throat and spilled from her mouth like bile, completely against her will and equally as uncomfortable, much to her chagrin. She had scarcely known the thought was even on her mind; it was like an ebbing tide, receded, when suddenly, with all the force of a crashing wave, it surged back in, slashing the shores with sharp cuts of water. It dragged her composure back into the ocean, pieces flaking away into the dark and unknown. How had she subconsciously mustered the gall to say such a delirious thing? It was despicable - and oh, how careless she was! Undertaker was in the midst of chewing the last of his samosa when the spontaneous declaration came, and he was so caught off guard that he sucked in a sharp breath and nearly choked himself. He sputtered, bringing a hand to clutch his chest as he cleared his throat; Emilynne cringed, face flushing an unbecoming shade of carmine. How utterly embarrassing.

"L-Lady Emilynne," he coughed, nails digging into the fabric of his coat as he struggled to pull together his equanimity.

"H-hush," she snapped. With a bit too much force, she thrust her teacup down onto its saucer; dark liquid, left to steep far too long, sloshed onto her silky white gloves. "Do not say anything. I haven't completed my part yet. Yes, I fancy you. But you ought to know why. I am no simple woman and my heart not so easily won, but you are so peculiar that I find I am drawn to you, and furthermore your laugh sends my heart into hysterics. So, yes, that is my truth. Do try not to resent me."

"Resent you, Lady Emilynne? Ehehehe... I could never. You flatter me so."

"Do not misconstrue a modest profession of feelings for flattery."

"Must say, you surprise me, m'lady. Always do," he tittered. "To think you'd vacate a spot in your heart for me."

"It was not intentional," she quickly retorted, a defensive sort of riposte. She wasn't sure why she felt the need to justify herself, but nonetheless she let out a petulant huff as she folded her arms across her chest, forgetting about the tea on her gloves. It dripped across her lap, left dull splatters on the otherwise clean fabric. She would notice this later and become cross, though at present the thought had very much slipped her mind.

"That I believe. Sure wasn't me own intention either."

His words went unheard. "Oh, it never is. Romance is so trite these days. An antiquated idea, really, forced upon us by our forefathers. _'Oh, love will heal all; do fall in love someday, dear.'_ Such rubbish. And really, it's-" She paused, milled over the right words. As she did this, she dithered on the whole of today, reflecting on everything that led up to this ghastly moment and why ever she had to open her mouth and speak. Lord, let it be known that Emilynne Abrahms was a bumbling idiot. Mentally, she chided herself for being so frank; Mother would surely have a fit if she were to have any knowledge of this exchange. So improper. A lady must hold her tongue. A lady must be coy, but not overtly so. A lady must this, a lady must that.

_ Oh_, she thought, t_o hell with what a lady must do! _Emilynne curled her hands into fists, squeezing her fingers into her palms so tightly that her nails dug through her gloves and her knuckles flushed white. To hell with propriety and to hell with ignominy! She could care for it no longer.

New determination wrote itself across her mien as she glanced up from her teacup and locked eyes onto the Undertaker's swaying form. He seemed impatient, waiting for something; for what, she did not know.

"Ahem. Undertaker. I care for you." Her words were crisp, lacking the stuttering that would normally mar such a confession. _"Gravely._ Do pardon the pun. And I should quite hope you feel similarly. If not, I understand. But should you return my feelings, I would ask you to meet me at the cemetery tonight, and we will have a proper chat. But for now, I would like to finish this meal, so please do your best to pretend none of this happened."

The Undertaker laughed - not in a rude manner, purely a vexed one. "My. As you wish, Lady Emilynne."

For the remainder of lunch they sat in silence, a weighty uncertainty hanging over Emilynne's head like the blade of a guillotine. She wished she could take hold of the rope herself, grasp it with all her might to keep it from falling. But she couldn't. There was no way to mollify the agitation that gripped her heart; she had willingly surrendered all control the moment she uttered such a daring thing, as it was no longer her game to play.

It was dangerous now. The rope was in his hands, waiting.


	11. XI: In the Dark

A cold sweat trickled down Emilynne's spine.

She rubbed her hands together, creating a friction that warmed her palms, but it did nothing to fend off the chill that assaulted her body from every angle. Her gait was staggered as she placed one foot in front of the other, over and over, struggling her way to the cemetery. _Almost there, _she told herself. _Just a little bit further._

With the wrought-iron gates in view, she felt herself begin to relax, shoulders releasing a pent-up tension she hadn't been aware she was carrying. Her muscles ached, exhausted from the surge of adrenaline that had shot through her just moments before. It left her more tired than when she had first started her walk. But, Lord, was it cold. The bitter bite of the evening made her want to curl in on herself and sleep. Sleep and forget anything ever happened. Sleep and never be responsible again.

It wasn't sweat, then, she realized, soddening the back of her dress and her gloves.

It was her own blood.

*****

She wasn't on time.

It was unlike Lady Emilynne to be late. _A lady does best to appear as scheduled; otherwise, she risks looking crass, _her voice echoed in his head, thundering against his eardrums. Phosphorescent eyes scanned the dim horizon with increasing worry, flitting from shape to shape - a bending tree branch, a lone couple walking with their son down the street. None of these things were her, and he wondered if perhaps this had all been some manner of cruel joke, meant to string him along and make a fool of him. If so, it had worked. His face flushed with humiliation and he rose to his feet, coat swaying around his thin body. His boots crunched through the icy grass and tomb rubble, creating a melancholy sort of sound, and he nearly lost himself in it until he heard the voice.

_Her _voice.

"Undertaker..." It was a quiet, helpless, and daresay weak cough of a sound, which was everything Lady Emilynne wasn't. She was bold and strong, rash and proud in her declarations.

Something was off.

Undertaker snapped to attention, his hands finding his bangs and pushing them from his face so he could better see the scape around him. "Lady Emilynne?" he called, tone rife with worry. He scurried from corner to corner, grave to grave, peering behind trees and around obelisks in a hurried search for the young woman. He could hear her voice, repeating his name over and over like a mantra, and with each repetition it seemed she grew more faint, more far away. Was he hallucinating?

"Lady Emilynne," he tried once more, hurrying to the gates as a last ditch attempt. Perhaps she had only just gotten here; that would explain the hush in her voice, as she would've been quite some distance from him and the wind would've likely swallowed most of her projection. He skidded to a stop, shoes sliding on the dewy grass, and, all of a sudden, there she was - left arm hanging limply at her side, back hunched as she teetered on her feet. Her bangs clung to her face with sweat; her eyes looked hollow, sunken, and her face was cadaverous, drained of all its color. Her lips moved as if to speak but no sound came out. She made to take another step, and the world decided to slip from underneath her.

Deftly, the Undertaker moved, caught her by the shoulders before she could hit the ground. He helped her right herself, fingers slipping over her skin - why was she so sticky? It was frigid out, not hot; surely she couldn't be so sweaty that her skin would be this damp.

He pulled his hands away. They came back bloody.

"L-Lady Emilynne!" he exclaimed. Their eyes met, his wide with horror, hers half-lidded with fatigue, and she sucked in a shallow breath. Her cheeks flushed with just the lightest spot of color as she beheld the sight of his full face, scar and all.

"My... you have... the most beautiful eyes," she whispered. Tired. She was so tired. Her legs buckled underneath her weight and she swayed unwillingly into his chest, hands grasping at his coat, trying to find some hold to pull herself up with.

"Please fix me." Her eyes were pleading as she stared up at him. "There's... my shoulder... it's..."

Gently, he pushed her slick, reddened hair away from the limp arm. Beneath it, slicing right through the delicate fabric of her dress, was a deep laceration. He could see far down into her skin, see the layers peeled back, the dark, almost black hue of the wound at its core. The surrounding skin was already inflamed; it likely burned with the pain of being cleaved apart so ruggedly, and would become infected were it not treated at once. But the infection was the least of his worries. He knew plenty about the human body, knew about its weak points and knew how easy it was to die of a brutal stab wound. He had sutured up many bodies with similar cuts.

The Jack the Ripper victims.

"Lady Emilynne. I'm going to pick you up and carry you to me shop. I'll fix this up straightaway," he said, and she gave a slow, lethargic nod in agreement. "Now, hold still a moment. I can't lie to you, milady, this will hurt quite a bit. But I need to stop your bleeding else you end up in one of me coffins for good." 

He untied the sash slung about his chest, folded it, and wound it in a similar fashion around Emilynne - placing the brunt of the fabric overtop of her wound. With an obsequious eye he pulled the cloth tighter, and Emilynne began to squirm and groan, face contorting with pain as her skin was tugged back together against its will. She ground her teeth against one another, squeezed her eyes shut so hard her vision went white, but nothing would silence the screaming of her flesh in response to the constricting fabric. It seemed to drag on forever, and she cried out into the still of the night. The pain was excruciating. She felt herself become faint.

"It's done, it's done, milady," he whispered, bringing a claret hand to her head and stroking her hair. She sobbed into his chest, slippery fingers curling into his coat.

"I want to go home," she whined, and he clicked his tongue softly.

"I know. We'll get you home soon, milady. I'm going to pick you up now and take you back to the parlor." Her face hardened - and the Undertaker breathed a small laugh. She was too fiercely independent for her own good. But after a bated moment of angered staring, she finally gave in, allowed herself to be gathered up into his arms. "Milady, you're but a feather in me arms."

"Do not tease me," she hissed through closed teeth. "I am small and light but I am right deadly."

"I know that. No Jack the Ripper can claim your vicious soul, ehehehe."

"Jack the Ripper be damned."

"Such a sharp tongue," he remarked, tightening his hold on her quivering body as he made haste for the funeral parlor. "We'll be there soon, I promise you that. You'll be right as rain. Just hold on."

She snorted at the statement. "I see I have little choice in the matter."

"You always have a choice, milady. I could fit you for the finest coffin this world has ever seen. I'd craft it for you meself."

"How charming."

"Ehehe, you know I'm only teasing you, Lady Emilynne."

"You're such a brute," she grumbled, shrinking in on herself as she let her head come to rest against his shoulder. Yes, she was quite capable of handling herself, but underneath all her tough talk and brave front, there simmered a feeling she had never experienced in such a raw form before.

Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.


	12. XII: Out of Harm

The needle bit through her flesh like a hail of teeth.

With each pull through her skin, the frenzied, gnawing pain grew worse, a ferocity igniting her nerve endings with molten fire. The Undertaker had administered morphine - which he had requisitioned from an apothecary some time ago - but it had done little to help her, so he had given her a rag to bite down on to absorb the force of her imminent wails. And wail she did. Even with the rag, her muted sobs echoed in the cramped quarters of the parlor, each more feverish than the last. The Undertaker worked with deft hands, obsequious in his care of the wound. It was quite different to be stitching together a _living _person, he noted, and it was a task that made the Undertaker feel sick to his stomach. He loathed the way Emilynne squirmed, the way tears carved hot trails down her pallid face. He just wanted it to be over with, but he had so much more wound to go, and so little time to do it.

"You're doing very well, milady. Keep holding still," he whispered.

In, across, out. In, across, out. The subcutaneous fat was a thick jelly of yellow. Each pull of the thread sent a fresh cascade of tears down her cheeks; his bloody hands trembled at the sound of her cries. His fingers were so warm, so slick, so shiny with the deep sanguine ooze. He feared he would drop the needle, so he paused, wiped his hands across the breast of his coat, and brandished his tool once more. In, across, out. Halfway done.

Emilynne's hands found their way to his arm and she grabbed him tightly, eyes begging. _Hurry._

He took a deep breath, turned his focus back to the wound. She dropped her hands.

*****

The room resembled a massacre, but the job was done.

The morphine had finally kicked in and Emilynne's screams had died to a whimper, a myriad of sad sounds alongside incoherent mumbling and very tired eyes flicking around the room. Undertaker much appreciated not having to watch her cry any longer as he tied off the stitching and cleaned the excess blood away with a cloth doused in antiseptics. These made her wince, but she did not complain about it. She did complain, however, when he cut the shoulder off her dress in order to wrap a bandage securely about her shoulder. "This is nice material. You'll pay for that, you heathen."

He had merely clicked his tongue and continued wrapping the bandage.

He finished his work and went about cleaning the room, leaving Emilynne sitting in a pool of her own blood, breathing heavily. Her throat was strained from screaming; her breaths came raspy as she exhaled, sounding quite like a wounded animal growling. Her body shook, fingers trembled atop the bloodied casket wood, drumming a discordant melody. So tired. She was so tired.

"Undertaker..." she slurred. The morphine slowed her tongue.

"Yes, milady?"

"Come here."

He was in the midst of sopping the blood off the floor, but he obliged.

Emilynne patted a spot on the coffin next to her - a very bloody spot, at that; her palm splashed in the claret pool - and the Undertaker hesitated. But she looked so insistent, and he supposed he did not care about his clothes any longer, for they were already coated in the ichor, so he took a seat as instructed. Emilynne dropped her head onto his shoulder, exhausted.

"Undertaker... Will I die if I sleep?" she asked innocently enough. Her eyes flew to his face, searching.

He offered a smile. "No, milady."

"Good. I'm so very tired..."

"Then rest. You've had quite the day."

"Yes..." She yawned, nuzzled her cheek into the crook of Undertaker's neck. His long hair tickled her nose; she giggled lightly at the sensation. "You... you've got such a handsome face. I always thought you were handsome before, but my goodness, your eyes. You're stunning."

"That's the morphine talking, Lady Emilynne."

"No... not the morphine. It's not..."

"Lady Emilynne?"

A soft snore was his only response, and the Undertaker exhaled a small, contented sigh. She needed her sleep in order to help the wound heal up, and he supposed it was the morphine that had made her so suddenly tired, coupled with the whole of the day's events. He would let her rest, question her about her attacker when she awoke. With a gentle hand, he brushed her bangs out of her eyes, gazed at her blood-crusted and tear-stricken face. Even now, she was quite the pretty picture; his heart lurched in his chest.

In this moment, he was surrendering himself. He gave up everything as he let her body ease against his side, let her sleeping form melt into him. For as long as it took, he would sit here, be her pillar.

"Goodnight, milady," he mused, fingers lacing through her hair idly. Yes, Lady Emilynne was quite something.

He did not fear the fall.


	13. XIII: Good Things Fall Together

When she woke, the room was on fire.

Smoke hit her nostrils like a thick wall. She burst into a paroxysm of coughing, shoulders convulsing and aching with the exacted force. Her left, in particular, screamed in disapproval; she could swear she heard the stitching whine in protest as she placed her hands on the slippery mahogany casket and pushed herself to her feet. Panic sheathed her mind, but the fire was only a small one, she noticed, as a candle had fallen off one of the nearby coffins and ignited a salvey substance - cleaning alcohol, she assumed. Highly flammable, and it reeked. Highly containable though.

Her eyes darted back and forth, surveying the whole of the dim room and noting the way the flames licked across the floor, creeping towards her and her bloody mess like an imminent danger. She had never smelled blood burning before, and Lord, was it foul. Her right hand flew to her nose and pinched it shut as she shuffled about the parlor, hunting, hunting for something to stamp out the fire with. She could use her boots, but her dress would likely catch the flames, and she did not want to try and contest a fire spreading on her body. She was already injured, and would likely be unable to save herself from immolation if she was unwise about her actions. No, it had to be something else - water, a heavy cloth, anything. But there was no water, only books upon books, and with each passing second the smoke in the room grew more dense, choking her lungs.

She scrambled to find the shawl she had returned, but it was nowhere to be found. Her fingers scratched at casket lids - perhaps she could pry one off and use it to smother the fire. But with her injured shoulder, she could scarcely move her left arm, and her right was not strong enough on its own to break the lids free. Her head spun; she whirled around, flames dancing with the breeze her dress generated. They seemed to taunt her, spreading ever closer. How had this happened? And the Undertaker - where was he? She tried to call for him but found her voice rendered silent, caught in her throat. The feeling of panic rose; her legs began to turn to jelly beneath her. The room swayed as she stumbled, and she could feel the heat of the fire beating down on her face as she crumpled to the ground, defeated. She clawed at the caskets but could not pull herself to her feet. They loomed like obelisks above her, reaching higher and higher into the air until they seemed to touch the ceiling and her hands dropped to her sides, unable to grasp any longer. Tears stung her eyes. Was this how she died? After being saved from Jack the Ripper, she was meant to burn to death in a funeral parlor?

Her eyes closed and salty rivers picked their way down her cheeks. The flames teased their way towards her bloodied fingers. Smoke obscured her vision, and she collapsed into the inferno.

*****

She felt the eyes on her before she saw them.

It was a very peculiar feeling, being watched. Was she dead? Was this her judgement? She drew a sharp breath - no longer could she taste smoke; no longer did her lungs ache with the residual burn of her breaths. The metallic tang of blood still hung heavy in the air, however, and its putrid scent seemed to ground her in reality. Then came the sensations - the moistness of blood underneath her fingertips and nails, the soft, warm allure of a body next to hers, the light cadence of breathing by her ear. Her nose itched - or did it tickle? - and, tentatively, she reached a hand to swat away the offending entity. Her body shook with laughter - laughter that wasn't her own - and she sat upright with a start, jolted to attention by the suddenness of the sound.

"Lady Emilynne. Good morning."

"U-Undertaker," she stuttered, eyes still wide with astonishment. He was glancing at her with soft eyes, a smile painted delicately across his lips. His hair hung in his face at an odd angle, and she surmised it was his long tresses that had tickled her nose so. "Good morning to you. I... I'm alive, aren't I?"

"As sure as it's day, milady. If you were dead you'd have seen your cinematic record."

"I... Yes. Must've been dreaming, then. I had a nightmare something fierce."

"I heard that. You were grumbling in your sleep, you were."

"W-was I? How mortifying..."

Emilynne's expression turned bashful; her eyes flew to the ground, tracing the splotchy edges of last night's bloodstains. They had dried, mostly, but the particularly pooled areas were still damp and shiny; they looked quite hazardous upon the smooth floor, easy for one to slip and fall on. She thought she would do well to clean it up - after all, it was her blood. Her mess she had created.

"And how are you feeling, milady? I hope me stitches don't hurt you too much."

"No, they're... they're fine. Just... sore. My shoulder feels quite like it's on fire," she replied, rolling the joint in its socket. The stitches stretched to accommodate her movement.

"I'll fix you some antiseptics for that. Don't want that nasty little wound of yours to get infected. Would be quite dangerous," he trilled, canting his head to the side as he met Emilynne's trepid gaze. "You certain you're alright, milady?"

"I... Yes." She gave a curt nod, moreso in affirmation to herself than to him. Seeming pleased with the answer, Undertaker rose from his seat to fetch a cloth, and with him went the warmth, fleeing from Emilynne's body all too quickly. She drew her arms around herself, gloves scraping over the dried blood spots on her dress, and hugged them close, trying to generate her own source of heat. It had been quite welcome to have him so close to her, and in any other circumstance she was certain she would've appreciated it more - but at present, she was unable to bring herself to even feel stirred by their proximity. The pain seeping from her wound was simply too exacerbated.

Undertaker swayed between the caskets, seeming to float across the floor as he moved from station to station, checking bottles on shelves and milling through cloths until he found one suitable enough for wound care. It was a soft cotton, good for soaking up antiseptics, and the color was dark, so bloodstains would be a nonissue. He doused the cloth in solution poured from a translucent green bottle, humming to himself as he sauntered back towards Emilynne.

"Here we are, milady. This will sting, so bear with me, please." He placed a hand on her non-injured shoulder to steady her and, with fastidious attention, pressed the damp cloth into her wound, trying not to wince as he heard her suck in a sharp breath through her teeth. He carried on like this, gently edging the cloth into the corners of her stitches until he had covered every inch of the cut, and once he was done, he discarded the cloth in a nearby pile of dirty rags - which were all soaked entirely through with blood. Emilynne assumed they were the ones he had used the night previous.

"Thank you," she spoke, voice little more than a whisper. "Not just for this. But for saving my life."

"You saved yourself, Lady Emilynne. I just put you back together."

"Hardly! I merely knocked the brute over the head with a rock. If it wasn't for you, I'd have bled to death."

"And I would've fitted you for the loveliest of coffins. Fit only for the loveliest of ladies."

Emilynne rolled her eyes - she knew it was a jest, but nonetheless, she was quite irked he wasn't taking her seriously. She knew she would've been cold and dead had it not been for his assistance and steady hand in the face of hardship.

_ "Undertaker_. I mean it."

"As do I, milady. You are truly a lovely lady. I would craft you the most wonderful coffin me shop has ever seen."

Her face hardened.

"Milady, surely you know I'm teasing you. I should hope I never see the day when this world claims your life."

"And if I _should _perish, you'll truly craft me a lovely casket?" she asked, entertaining the idea just for his sake.

"I promise it, milady. And I would visit you everyday."

"As would I if harm ever befell you."

The two shared a bated silence, eyes locked from across the room. Undertaker's lips were curled into a smile, irises twinkling with a kind of luminescence she could swear was otherworldly. He had such mesmerizing eyes, a stare that could freeze a person dead in her tracks. It made Emilynne's spine tingle.

"Lady Emilynne, I have something important I must tell you. But the price for information..."

"Laughter. Of course." She shook her head in mock disapproval, though did little to disguise the simper tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'll do my best."

She was far too curious for her own good. Her first few attempts were jokes fired off in rapid succession, most of which elicited small chuckles, but it was her last, long-winded attempt at humor that got him to let out a hearty guffaw. In retrospect, she probably should've opened with the joke - _"Watson, you idiot, it means somebody stole our tent!"_ \- but the chorus of giggles that her first few tries had brought was enough to send her heart fluttering in her chest. It almost made it worth it, even though she had expended several of the new jokes she had been saving for their cemetery meetings.

"Now, this information. Do tell me."

"Of course, ehehehe." He grinned, lacing his fingers together as he leaned his chin atop his folded hands. "Now then... Milady, this is of grave importance. Do not take what I say lightly."

"Noted."

Phosphorescent eyes gleamed in the dim of the room. "I fancy you."


	14. XIV: Quiet Roar

The words hit Emilynne like a brisk slap in the face.

All at once the world shifted, sliding out from under her feet. It melted into a galactic pool of constellations and starry shadows that writhed around her, forming and reforming the universe by the second. The sturdy, imposing grey walls of the parlor flaked away into the vastness of space, the bloodstained floors vanished, the residually dusty bookshelves sank into swirling black holes. In a blink, the air left her lungs, and fear stilled her heart. But it passed as quickly as it had come and she found she had never felt more light, as if she could float away on the westerly trade winds of her home country.

He stood there across from her, shining brilliantly in the pit of the nothingness. Or rather, the everything - limitless expansion all around them, celestial bodies converging and breaking apart, comets carrying stardust never to be touched by human hands. And in the middle of it all he was there, silver hair snaking out into the stars like ethereal chains. Luminescent irises reflected the whole of the nebula spreading out before them; she stared, wide-eyed. It was beauty begetting beauty. Splendor in its most human form. Life, death, purgatory. The peril of existence. He was everything, all at once, and she felt her heart lurch.

Oh, how mortal she was.

She stole a single step towards him. His lips parted as though to speak; she leaned forward eagerly, awaiting his every word. What music would he play today?

"Told you it was important, didn't I, milady?"

And she was whisked back, down through the clutches of the universe. Reality, grounding her. The blackness of space was torn to shreds by a blinding light; stars winked out of existence around her, exploding into crackling cascades of light. She blinked the dust away from her lashes, dazed. "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

A chuckle. A low, melodious sound, much like the cadence of rainfall upon a windowpane; her heart skipped a very important beat as it pounded in her chest. His chartreuse eyes were imploring, fixed on her face with a fervent curiosity. She returned the stare with vigor and a bright vermillion visage.

"Lady Emilynne-"

"E-Emilynne," she declared, puffing her chest as she hardened her expression as best she could. "You may call me simply Emilynne. No need for formalities."

"Emilynne," he agreed, rolling the word playfully on his tongue.

Heat pricked at the tips of her ears as he tested the name a few more times, toying with his enunciation and tone. Sometimes he would stretch out the vowels, other times he would punctuate the syllables with timed pauses; it was very much like he had learned a new word and was trying to decide if it was too foreign or if it was acceptable. His mischievous countenance indicated the latter.

"Well, Emi-lynne," he drawled, fingers lacing together, "What do you think of me confession?"

"I think- No. Wait. Th-the price for that piece of information is..." She halted, dithering for a moment, then drew her plush lips into a reticent simper. She would use his own scheme against him. "...laughter. Of the purest sorts."

"Laughter, eh? Ehehe! Milady, you're so funny. Very well. Tell me... Why is a dog like a tree?"

She tilted her head to the side, slowly, allowing herself to entertain his joke. "I don't know."

"Because... they both lose their bark once they're dead, ehehe!" he tittered, bursting into a wide smile as he swayed with the force of his own laughter.

"Undertaker! How morbid!"

"But funny, milady. Here, I'll try another one... Who's the greatest chicken-killer in Shakespeare?"

"Pardon?"

"Macbeth," he replied, "because he did murder most _foul!"_

Emilynne averted her gaze swiftly. "How ridiculous!"

Her thin brows knit, drawing deep creases in her forehead as if to reflect dire focus. They twitched slightly and she acted as though she did not notice. _A lady must maintain her dignity, above all things._ As such, to retain appearances, Emilynne brought a gloved hand to her mouth, pressing her lithe fingers against her lips in a meager effort to smother a mounting laugh. Still, notwithstanding her best efforts, the rebellious sound came out as a nasally hum and soon enough, she gave in to a paroxysm of giggles. 

"Oh, _alright!_ You got me. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite. And you, milady? Does me humor appease your need for laughter?"

"Quite," she mirrored. Bashfully, she dropped her gaze and focused on the wrinkles in her dress, the deep ochre splotches all about her waist. With a gentle hand, she smoothed the front ruffles down. "I suppose it's only proper of me to relay my information to you, then. Very well. Of this confession, I thought... Well, I thought it..."

She faltered, deepening fixation on her dress. Her fingers dug into the fabric; had it not been for her gloves, she would've seen that her knuckles had flushed white with the force of her grip.

"I thought it lovely. And very... like you. And so I say with great pleasure that your words are appreciated and I return the sentiment. That is to say, I find you appealing. Quite. In fact, I would very much like to never leave this place and share laughter with you forever. If that would be no inconvenience to you, of course. I'm quite handy with most things; I've done servant work before - as a hobby, of course, is that strange? - and I'm sure I'd be adept at any task you need assistance with." She was rambling, and she knew it. The room somehow seemed stuffier than it had before - why was the cobwebbed chandelier hanging so low? When did the bookcases and coffins close in on her so suddenly?

"Emilynne." His voice was soft, silky. She loathed how this tone made her heart leap into her throat. "No need to be so nervous. It's only me."

"I-I know that!" came her snappy reply. "I... It has been some time since my heart has felt like this. And I must admit, it's draining. I find myself in need of rest once again. Furthermore, I really should retire to my estate; I'm sure Mother is faint with worry..."

"Been a while for me too, milady. Eheheh. Now then, shall I walk you home?"

He offered her his right arm, and after a moment of deliberation, she accepted, allowing their shared closeness despite the gelatinous feeling it brought to her legs. _Deep breaths._ She inhaled slowly, filling her lungs to the brim with air, and then exhaled twice as slow, a desperate attempt at quelling the feverish racing of her heart and nerves. She had been close to him before; why was this so different? Then, ah - there came the fresh memory of the confession. It should've instilled her with confidence, but instead, she found herself trepid, bursting at the seams with worry. She felt awfully like she was going to vomit, and so she ushered the both of them out the door quickly. Fresh air would be her saving grace.

"So, milady. While we walk, would you tell me about Jack the Ripper?"

She swallowed a lump in her throat.

"Very well."


	15. XV: Remembrance

The frigid winds were less than optimal.

It wasn't just the fresh wound that prompted Emilynne's headache as she trod down the cobblestone street. It was the all-encompassing, gnawing chill of the mid-autumn air, the rapid rushing of blood to her cheeks, the incessant drumming of her heart against her ribs, thundering in her bones. Yes, it was dizzying. Her lips pursed slightly as she fought to keep her mien one of placidity, but the frenzied roaring of her heartbeat made her queasy, and she swayed on weak legs.

She found herself steadied by a gentle hand, a warm touch that ignited her skin into a blossom of heat and comfort. Equally, however, there was the discomfort, the lurching feeling in her stomach and the wobbliness in each step forward. Her mind raced in thirty directions at once and she was not at all prepared to take on any one thought, much less multiple of them. Nausea washed over her in heavy, crashing waves, and the crease of her brows deepened.

Trees bent under the gale; the London waters thrashed angrily. They fizzed against the shore, a hiss not unlike that of a snake coiled and ready to strike. Out in the distance, Emilynne could make out the shapes of ships on the water, stalwart masts stretching high into the dense clouds - or was it fog, she wondered, sitting so low to the ground and obscuring her sight of the horizon?

Beside her, the Undertaker hummed a solemn melody, slow and sour in tone. Each time she thought she recognized the song, he would change the verse and it would become something entirely foreign to her. Perhaps, she thought, he was making it up as he went. A requiem for the lost souls on the wind.

He ceased his singing promptly, as if noticing Emilynne had a deep fixation set on him. He cleared his throat, tipped his nose into the wind. "So, milady. How did you come to be sought after by Jack the Ripper?"

"I... I'm not sure," came her small reply. She dithered on the memory, trying to summon each detail as it had happened, but, like the horizon, it was foggy. Her visage contorted; her lips curved into a frustrated line, nose wrinkled at the bridge, brows dropped low to the inner corners of her eyes. Why couldn't she remember? Surely the morphine had worn off; it couldn't be that barring her memory. Was it truly possible that, in all the excitement and terror, she had wiped it from her mind?

"I was walking down my estate drive. Alone, of course," she continued, drumming her fingers idly against Undertaker's arm as she thought. "I had the strangest feeling that I was being followed. Really, though, what was the likelihood? I likened it to my nerves and ignored the feeling."

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to summon the image of her lone self on the path to the cemetery. "It was... Well. It happened when I got out of the drive. The walk to the cemetery is through a gravel pathway lined with very tall, thick trees, see. It was dark, and I could scarcely make out my own hands in front of my face. I had the moonlight to guide me, of course, but even then, it was difficult. My boots were loud on the ground, and I'm sure they gave me away. I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but I ended up convincing myself it was just the wind."

A sigh. The Undertaker adjusted his arm, allowing Emilynne to come closer. "Everything after that is a blur. I do remember feeling like I had been struck by a fist; I didn't realize I was bleeding until I got away. It was a shock, and I suppose my body went into some sort of survival mode. After he hit me - or cut me, rather - I fell to the ground and I thought I was going to die. My hands were scraping over the gravel looking for something to use, and I eventually came upon a rather large rock. He came close to me, and I knocked him over the head with it and stunned him long enough to run away. I didn't see his face, nor did he say anything to me."

"Clever girl," Undertaker remarked, grinning.

She shrugged with her good shoulder, an awkward looking gestation. "Perhaps."

"Lady Em- _Emilynne_," he corrected himself, recalling her request to do away with formalities. They were close enough that such titles were not needed, weren't they? He supposed so. It had been a long while since he had been so fascinated with someone - enamored, even - but he couldn't shake the words on his tongue. To him, she was Lady Emilynne, the sharp witted girl with a sharp tongue. He drew a deep, focused breath, carried on, "you're a brave sort, milady. You've got a strong soul. I'd let no Jack the Ripper have that soul, I can promise you that."

"So, what then? You're saying you'll save me should harm come my way?"

"Ehehehe. Perhaps. I can certainly say that I'd fight tooth and nail for you, milady."

"Why?"

"Ehehe! Why indeed? Why_ not?"_

"You vex me."

"It's me charm, Emilynne," he teased.

She rolled her eyes, as if playing along. "Right. And so is stitching up your beloved. Very charming indeed."

But there _was _a strange, almost primitive sort of charm about him; she couldn't deny that. It was in his smiles, his giggles, his bizarre gestures and trilling voice. It was in the way he swayed as he walked or the way he hummed to himself while occupied, it was the way he twirled his braid around his fingers or crept around caskets while grinning to himself. He was utterly strange, and she found it enchanting.

She flushed red at the cheeks, but if prompted she would blame it on the cold.

"Ah, we're almost there. My estate is just down the drive. You needn't walk the rest of the way if you do not wish to do so."

The Undertaker offered a wan smile. "And what would be the point of walking you back if I don't see you safely to your door, milady? A waste of effort, that is."

She huffed a sigh in order to disguise a pleased smile at his response. "Very well then. Come, now. It's cold out here something bitter."

"Then stand closer, milady," he said, chastely tugging her into his chest. Heat traveled from her cheeks to her ears, scorching her flesh. She pretended not to notice.

They walked in silence, Emilynne grasping the breast of his coat with trembling fingers in a desperate attempt to sap every possible ounce of heat from his body. He was warm, so warm, and she almost found herself wishing he would carry her like he had the night prior. But the thought was silly, for she was an independent young woman, and she need not rely on any person for warmth nor travel.

They stood in front of the estate now, its grand columns rising high into the sky. By the front doors, rose bushes wavered in the wind, sending petals drifting to the dewey grass. Emilynne eyed them, released Undertaker from her grip, and shuffled over to the nearest bush to pluck a flower from the masses.

"For your troubles," she said, turning on her heel and offering him the rose. Its petals were still mostly intact, though some were browning with age, but he smiled dearly nonetheless and accepted her proffered gift.

"My thanks."

"Do see yourself safely home. I loathe to think anything would happen to you."

"I will, milady. I can promise that too."

"Then... then I bid you farewell," she said. But despite every fiber in her body telling her to turn tail and head inside, she hesitated, swaying on her toes in the wind just like the flowers. What was she doing? Confusion overwhelmed her. Acting on a whim, she took a single, measly step forward, stared Undertaker straight in the face. "Thank you." And with that, she placed a soft kiss on his cheek, ignoring the rush of adrenaline that set her body ablaze.

"G-goodbye then," she called over her shoulder as she hurried up the stairs to the estate. Without so much as glancing back, she shut herself inside and placed a hand over her chest, feeling her racing heart thump wildly in its cavern.

"My God," she breathed. "What have I done."


	16. XVI: Confrontation

Keeping the wound a secret was a difficult task.

More than that, it was tiring. Daytime brought the most trouble, for Emilynne had to maneuver the house in such a way that would not arouse suspicion from Mother, who had eyes like a hawk. She had to sip her tea calmly, curtsy to guests with all due elegance, dance around the ballroom with strange men for the sake of her Mother's enjoyment. It placed huge amounts of strain on her healing shoulder, and she had taken up the habit of biting her tongue to keep from displaying any emotion that would expose her torment. At all costs, she could not betray her condition. Thus, she dressed in clothes that covered her entire neck, all soft fabrics that wouldn't scrape her stitches. She opted for dark colors, to disguise the residual blood that would soak through during the dances. She wore heavy coats when possible, wrapped scarves around her shoulders otherwise. Still, her stitches groaned under the daily overexertion, tearing at her raw flesh. No clothing choice could stall that from happening.

She cursed Mother for being so insistent on finding her a suitor.

Nighttime was easier, but not altogether pleasant. For the first few evenings, Emilynne found it nearly impossible to sleep. The pain would chew at her skin like the teeth of a rabid dog, gnashing, tearing, butchering. It burned, and with the burning came the aching, the hollow, throbbing pain that coursed through her shoulder down to her lower back. She had been given a vial of salve by the Undertaker for daily application, but it had done little to cease the discomfort; all it had provided for her was the promise that her wound would not get infected. But even then, she had her doubts.

On the fourth morning, she woke up to find her pillowcase covered with dried blood and a thick, yellowy substance that she could only assume had leaked from her shoulder. With eyes wide, she'd hurried to her mirror to inspect the cut. Around the stitches, her skin curled like burnt paper; it resembled crudely chewed up meat, red at the edges and oozing the same vile substance that stained her sheets._ Pus. _Her stomach lurched as her eyes traced the stitches down the recesses of her back, as far as her gaze could go. It was a garrish scene, no doubt going to leave a nasty scar - if it ever properly healed. She wondered if it had hit bone. It had surely torn through her muscle tissue, and she feared for the use of her arm.

The fifth morning brought a welcome change. The maddened red of the skin had died to a soft, baby pink; the pus leakage was minimal. She dabbed at her stitches with a cloth covered in salve, as she did every morning, and noted that the pricking was less this time, more a dull ache than a vicious stabbing sensation. She could deal with this. She dressed herself in her usual beige, feeling dauntless, but for good measure donned a black wool overcoat. Precautions had to be taken.

The sixth morning, she noticed the dark bags under her eyes were starting to lift. She was consistently able to get sleep, consistently able to lift her teacup without feeling like her arm was about to fall out of its socket. She still could not dance without excessive pain, but she felt she was on the rise, moving towards normalcy. This was good. Finally, she could feel a weight being taken off.

On the ninth morning, she received a visitor.

She was still sound asleep when Mother called her, boisterous voice booming through the halls and high ceilings. This was not enough to rouse her, however, so a servant was sent to her quarters to wake her, and Emilynne had come to consciousness with quite a fright at the feeling of a hand on her shoulder. It was Lottie, who had apologized profusely for startling her, and I'm so sorry, milady, but your Mother is requesting your presence, and would you like any help getting dressed? To which Emilynne politely declined because, no thank you, you should go get some breakfast Lottie, I'll be down shortly. After Lottie's departure, Emilynne brought a hand to her chest, fingers sensing the frantic beat of her heart. She drew deep breaths, held them, exhaled slowly. The beating began to calm down, slow but sure.

_"Emilynne Charlotte! _What on earth is taking you so long?" Mother called, tone taking on a fair amount of frustration. Emilynne winced, only just beginning to dress herself in her daily wear.

"One minute, Mother!" she called back, hastily draping a grey shawl around her shoulders to disguise the wound. She was wearing her usual dress today, a boat-necked beige piece with a magenta ribbon drawn about the waist, paired with white gloves. It was none too impressive, and that was the way she liked it. After all, she felt she had an idea of what was lying in wait for her. More suitors.

With as little excitement as humanly possible, she scurried from her room and made her way down the stairs. She kept her eyes fixated on her socks, not quite ready to face whatever filth Mother had dragged in off the streets. When her gaze lifted, though, she saw Mother, staring at her fiercely, arms crossed, while by her side stood...

"Good morning, milady," Undertaker said, flashing a pleasant smile.

Emilynne's stomach dropped.

"U-Undertaker," she greeted, blinking in surprise. Why was he here? She couldn't say it was an unwelcome surprise; she had been quite bored without him, but still, it was very terrifying to have both him and Mother in the same room. She would certainly be disapproving if she found out of the feelings Emilynne sheltered for him.

"You know this man, Emilynne?" Mother asked, drumming her fingers impatiently against her arm.

"Yes, Mother."

"And why, pray tell, is he here interrupting our morning?"

"Mother!" Emilynne exclaimed, face aghast. "He is doing no such thing. I daresay he is quite welcome here. But if this is such an inconvenience for you, we shall be off. I've business to tend to in the city anyhow." With a tip of her nose, Emilynne strode towards the doorway, slipped on her boots, and excused herself.

"Come, Undertaker. We're going."

He did not argue.

*****

Emilynne only spoke once more when they were halfway down the estate drive, well out of earshot of Mother.

"What are you _doing_?" she hissed, voice low. "Mother will have my head for this. Oh, good gracious, I'm in such trouble now. She's going to wonder why I know you and what your relationship to me is and - oh, dear, she's going to be so cross._ 'Emilynne Charlotte, you need to pick a suitor _now_, not fall for some gravedigger!' _That's what she'll say. And how do I respond to that? Tell her, 'now, Mother, this lovely gentleman saved me from dying. See, I was attacked by Jack the Ripper, and' - oh, Lord, no. I can't do that. How do I get out of this?"

"Milady, I do apologize for coming here meself, but I had to get you. It's about time to remove those sutures from your wound," he explained, gesturing vaguely to her shoulder. "If I don't, well... that'll be stuck in your skin forever, ehehe! Not a very good option, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Her brows knit; she chewed her lower lip in thought. "Is that process... painful?"

"Wouldn't know, milady. Never done it on a living person before," he said, giggling a bit as if finding his own statement amusing. "But don't fret. I'll take good care of you."

"How comforting."

"Milady, you've come this far. What's a little more agony to distress your pretty soul?"

"How crass! No one likes to suffer."

"Only teasing, milady. I'll have you right as rain; you have me word. To lose someone as amusing as you would be like losing the world."

Emilynne folded her arms across her chest, puffing her cheeks out in a petulant display. "I- W-well, I should hope so! Though I like to think my contribution is not just amusement, but quality company as well... A-anywho, as for what to tell Mother..."

She fell silent as she began to follow several different leads in her mind, racing from one sentence to the next, one explanation to the other. What was the most believable? That this man was merely an acquaintance? But, no, why would an ordinary acquaintance know her place of residence and come searching for her on a Tuesday morning? A friend, then, she could say. But surely Mother, with her obscenely keen eyes, would know that Emilynne does not just look at friends that way. So what, then? She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs from her brain. _Think, Emilynne._

_ Think, or else risk losing him forever._


	17. XVII: Peace and Quietus

When they arrived at the parlor, Emilynne was still deep in thought.

She had spent the entire ten minute duration of the walk dead silent, chasing scenario after scenario with a wild desperation to find anything to cling to. First, she had gone through the options of telling Mother he was a friend, which were laden with questioning and keen glares that pierced her very soul. Then, she went through the options of telling her he was more than a friend - that, _yes_, Mother, he was the person who had captured her heart. But most of those scenarios had ended with Mother telling her just to _'marry the Duke and be done with it, Emilynne, really,' _and Emilynne found herself wondering why, even in her imagination, Mother couldn't be reasoned with.

The Undertaker had been courteously quiet as Emilynne grappled with her thoughts; as it were, he had become quite bemused by her actions since the occurrence with her mother. He had taken to studying the varying expressions on her face as she went; many were the look of a woman peeved. Her eyebrows were sinking lower and lower over her dark brown irises, casting shadows down the creases of her forehead. Her nose crinkled at the bridge; her lips upturned in a pout. He did not need much more of a tell to sense something was amiss. Her visage spoke for itself, and with all due respect he did not want to exacerbate the young woman's worries, so he kept resigned to his own thoughts, watching her as she pressed her lips into a flat line, irritated.

He spoke only when they reached the parlor, quipping a light, "after you, milady," to which she grunted and shouldered her way into the dank, thin air of the shop.

Her demeanor was off-putting, but Undertaker made no move to display this fact. He merely sashayed about the caskets, plucking cloths and tools from their hiding places and brandishing them in an all too proud manner. Of course, he was smiling, but somehow it seemed more forced than it had before.

"Alright, milady," came his trilling voice as he turned fast on his heel, "All I've got to do is cut those sutures out of you and you'll be sitting pretty. Shouldn't hurt much; you'll just feel a little tug, nothing more. Bear with me now, the worst is over already."

He strode towards her, ushered her with quick hands to the nearest casket, seating her briskly and, beg pardon, milady, would you mind ever so kindly removing your shawl? He offered a soft smile for good measure, the shears in his hand glittering in the dim light. After a moment's deliberation she did, face blank as she dropped the soft woven garment to her lap, exposing the baby pinks of her healing wound. The Undertaker surveyed it carefully, clicked his tongue. It had healed up quite well, and he had to admit, he was surprised at how well her body had responded to the salve. Many a times his own wounds would take on nasty infections even with the assistance of a daily antiseptic. But this one seemed free of any such burden; the skin was coming cleanly back together, though the scar tissue was dense and dark, quite noticeable, really. She would be hard-pressed to hide that from her mother, and Undertaker grimaced, knowing that would be rather upsetting to dear Emilynne.

With a gentle touch he brushed her hair over her shoulder and out of the way; it was soft, and quite pretty in the limited light of the parlor. He wondered how he had never noticed before.

"Undertaker?" she asked, voice little more than a whisper as he began to wipe antiseptic over the length of her laceration.

"Yes, milady?" 

"Do you - oh, this is so silly of me. Do you believe in love?"

He hummed thoughtfully as he picked up a pair of forceps with his left hand - his right was occupied with the surgical scissors, which Emilynne kept casting wary glances at - and pulled at the first of the stitches. The sutures lifted; he slid the scissors underneath and snipped right down the middle, then began to pull the severed chunks of thread from her wound. She winced at the tug, but said nothing. She was waiting on his response.

He repeated the process for the second stitch. "Yes, milady. I do. To laugh is to love," he murmured, discarding the pieces of stitches on the casket beside her. "I believe that love finds us whether we want it to or not, hee hee. Be it friends, family, strangers. Love is part of the soul."

"And what's my soul like?" she asked.

"Shining."

"Shining?"

"You bring light to those around you. Or to me, at least, ehehe. You've got a powerful soul, Emilynne. It's beautiful, it is." He snipped the third stitch, discarding its remains before moving to the fourth.

Emilynne's back stiffened; he picked up on the change near instantly. Her shoulders had gone rigid, making it harder to access the sutures, and he gently placed a hand on her arm, easing her down. She obliged, but even after she had dropped her shoulder back, there was still a residual tension to her muscles that he did not quite understand.

"You're far too kind, you know," she said at last, when he was well on his way to being done with the eighth suture. "It's a sickness. I am no expert, but if there is one thing I know about butterflies, it's that they don't belong in my stomach, Undertaker."

"And you believe that's got something to do with me, milady?"

"I know it does," she retorted, voice sharp. Her face was serious, eyes focused and intense. "It's always been you. You and your... your _mannerisms_, your - oh, how do I put it? Your way of being. Just the way you are, with your laughter and your odd gestures, your personality. It's all very charming, and I am privy to these innermost things about you. It gives me chills."

His lips curled up into a pleased smile. "Milady. You flatter me, as always."

"It's no flattery, Undertaker. Come now, you can't possibly believe my aim is to flatter you! I am sitting here, reflecting on what to tell Mother because you have hopelessly - and haplessly, mind you - captured my very heart! Can you not tell I speak so plainly because I can no longer beat around the bush? It's taking all of my courage just to tell you this. But I care for you in a way akin to -" She faltered, cleared her throat, "-akin to _love_, I daresay, and I would like very much for you to see that as the truth. Those many nights sneaking to the cemetery and sipping tea with you were not for aught, were they?"

He drew in a deep, bated breath, as if inhaling her words along with the air. He stewed on them for quite some time; the silence made her nervous, and he could just barely make out the edges of her frame trembling. Her hands lay in her lap, fingers curled tightly around one another; they shook too, sending ripples down her dress.

"Emi," he said softly, working deftly to remove the last of the sutures so he could promptly seat himself beside her. They were facing opposite directions now; he could not see the scarlet of her face, nor could she see his, concealed underneath his shaggy hair. To both, this was a godsend. "If I may call you that, ehehe. I think it suits you. Listen, now. You do flatter me. But I understand your feelings are quite real, as are me own. But I cannot permit meself to act on them. A lady like you cannot be with someone like me, isn't that so?"

"I... I know that," she said, and her trembling seemed to increase dramatically. "But I care not for appearances. I care not what people would say if they saw us walking down the street together. Can you truly say you care more for society's standards than your own emotions?"

"Milady. It's me job to adhere to that."

"As it is mine, but I forsake it! Do not be a coward now and condemn yourself to this trite life when I will not be here forever. I am sick of all this mess - first Mother, now you. Can no one see reason? I - oh, gods be _damned_, I love you, and I will not waste another minute in not telling you so. And so I bid you good day, sir," she spat, rising abruptly and gathering her shawl from the floor where it had fallen. She wrapped it about her shoulders with a huff, brows drawn into neat, thin angles that reflected all the depth of her depravity. She stormed to the front of the parlor, flung open the door, and before stepping outside into the blinding morning light, cast a single, thousand yard stare over her good shoulder.

"If you care yet, meet me at my estate tonight for the party. If not, I will understand where we lie in regards to one another. So... good day. And good night."

And with that, she was gone, whisking herself down the alley with all the grace and anger of a raging storm. Her heart raced, too fast to count individual beats. Still, this was the right thing. Of all the silly notions in her world, class separating love was by far the most ridiculous. The same had happened with Willis, and she had already lost him. If she was to lose another, she was to do it on her terms.

She strode confidently back to the estate, never once stealing a glance behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ the chapter title is a pun lmao ]


	18. XVIII: Tempting Fate

She was scarcely even through the front door and already Mother was on her.

"Emilynne, darling. We simply _must _talk about these goings-on lately."

That woman never missed a beat. Sharp, predatorial eyes scanned her daughter's face as she commenced pestering her about where she had been and why she had left with that strange man and how could you do that to your poor mother, you had me frightened to death!

Emilynne's shoulders slumped dejectedly. She did not want to deal with this issue at the present moment, not when the memory of all she had done was so fresh in her mind. Now came the time for doubts, the time for reflection on what she had said and why she'd had the gaul to say it so plainly. She felt her stomach twist itself into a knot; she clutched at the breast of her dress, brows knitting as the pained sensation spread through her body. It was a rushing heat - embarrassment. How had she admitted all that straight to his face? She'd even claimed she loved him. How blunt, how frank, how - how unladylike! Emilynne felt quite faint; her legs swayed underneath her, gelatinous.

"Emilynne Charlotte. Are you listening to me? Do you feel ill? Has that man done something to you?"

_Oh, Mother. You don't know the half of it_.

"No, Mother. Just feeling queasy from skipping my morning meal. I'm sure a spot of tea and a snack will fix me right up," she replied, forcing a smile onto her face as she dropped her hands to her sides and let her gaze rise to meet Mother's. All she had to do was look pretty, ignore the rising heat in her face, and say all the right things without revealing what had actually happened. Simple enough.

"Very well. I'll send Lottie to fetch the tea," Mother said with an exasperated sigh. Her shrill voice pierced the morning stillness as she called for their servant, who came scurrying into the room with a bit of shock in her face. The suddenness of Mother's calling had likely startled her, and Emilynne felt bad for the poor, stout woman, trotting around tending to everyone's needs like a nanny. In some ways, she had been more of a parent to her than her own rightful kin had been. Emilynne felt horrid for pitying her.

"Lottie, would you be so kind as to brew some fresh tea for us?"

"Of course, milady. Right away, milady," Lottie said, bowing her head curtly - not for lack of politeness, simply pressed for time - and straightaway left the room, bumbling in the direction of the kitchen. Mother shook her head, as if disapproving.

"That woman. Always a bit slow. Now, Emilynne. This man. Do share a bit about him, won't you? Since you seem so _well _acquainted."

Emilynne's face flushed. "He works at the funeral parlor. I've seen him around the city a bit and around the graveyard when I visit Willis. We've spoken since and I've found him to be quite the polite gentleman. He's rather funny, too."

"Funny doesn't equate to status, my dear. You'd do well to stay away from him. Such a reputation is - is _ghastly, _my sweet."

"He's not like that, Mother. He does his job in earnest. He simply wants to help..."

"Hush, now. Undertaking is always one of those jobs where they press you for your coin. I'm sure he's no different under whatever mask he wears around you. You're a noble lady from a wealthy family. I'm sure he's just using you, dear."

"Mother! Absolutely not! He-" _Saved me from Jack the Ripper. _"He said he remembered Willis. He helped his family grieve, and saved them quite a bit of coin in making the casket as well. He's not guilty of such boorish things!"

"And why do you defend him so adamantly? You won't fight like this for the Duke but you will for the - for the _Undertaker?"_

"He's different, Mother. You'd see that if only you gave him a chance."

"I absolutely will not. He is not worthy of speaking to my daughter." Mother crossed her nimble arms over her chest, sharp fingers drumming impatiently upon her sleeves.

Emilynne could sense the conversation had reached its conclusion. She sighed inwardly; her shoulders drooped even lower than they had been before. She slipped out of her boots and left them at the doorway, sauntering off towards the kitchen to help Lottie prepare snacks and tea. Besides, she could use a bit of comfort - Mother provided nothing of the sort.

"I'll have you know I invited him to the party tonight," she added, just as she was about to disappear behind the door frame. "If he shows up, I'd like very much if you didn't chase him off. I'm right about him, Mother. Just give me a chance to prove it."

She did not stick around to hear Mother's reply. She was tempting fate.

*****

In the kitchen, Lottie was busy scrambling about, throwing a pinch of salt here and a dash more of sugar there - oops, too much, the biscuits will be _awfully _sweet - in a mad attempt to prepare sufficient snacks for her employers. Seeing this, Emilynne smiled. Lottie was such a wholehearted woman, always dedicating herself to her tasks with the utmost sense of focus.

"Hello, Lottie."

"Oh, Miss Emilynne! Why, hello. What brings you here, milady?"

"I'd like to help, if that's alright."

Lottie considered her options, tapping her flour-covered forefinger against her cheek. "As long as your mother doesn't catch wind of it, I think it should be alright," she said at last, finishing her sentence off with a quick wink and a smile. Emilynne giggled, removing her silky gloves and folding them neatly.

"Where shall you have me start, then?"

"Well, dear, this dough is almost done. Would you care to roll it out for me?"

"I can try my best," Emilynne replied, smile lacking any semblance of confidence as she strode towards the countertop where Lottie had placed the hunk of dough. It sat, looming, like an unwieldy stone sitting in the center of the table, and Emilynne had only a fraction of an idea how to approach it. The last time she had rolled out dough for biscuits was when she had made them for the Undertaker, and they had turned out far too thick and over baked. She swallowed a lump in her throat, approached the dough.

"So. Tell me about him," Lottie said with a grin as she dusted flour off her hands - and face.

"Oh, Lottie. He's... he's lovely. But Mother doesn't believe so."

"Tell me everything, dear."

Emilynne sighed, kneaded the dough with a floured hand. "Well..."

*****

The conversation with Lottie had instilled some confidence in her. As always, Lottie was supportive, listening to her with whoops of laughter and plenty of encouraging smiles and "he sounds lovely, dear." Few times did Emilynne have the chance to simply be a girl, fawning over a boy; she enjoyed being able to talk freely and not have to defend every choice she made, like she'd have to do with Mother. It was so exhausting feeling like she was on trial all the time.

Night was closing in, and every molasses dipped second that passed only bolstered Emilynne's nervousness. Her fingers drummed a discordant melody on the polished mahogany of her nightstand. Skittish eyes darted about the room, flitting from wardrobe to gilded mirror to wardrobe again. She opted not to stare at her reflection too much; the girl she saw was wan, eyes sunken and lips pulled into a disquieted frown, hair disheveled and spotted with flour. It was sickening.

Lottie had promised assistance in preparing for the evening's party. Where Emilynne was gracious and thankful, she was also afraid, feeling more and more asphyxiated the closer the time drew. Trepidation choked the throat that already seemed to be closing in on itself. She gulped her quickened breaths, desperate.

The candelabra at her bedside danced unknowingly. Wax dripped slowly down the length of each candle, pooling in designated chambers; teasing flames winked in and out of existence, burning fiercely or not at all. They seemed to mock her. Emilynne heaved a sigh, licked her thumb and forefinger and closed them gently around the wick nearest her. It stung a bit, but it was a welcome sensation. Something other than anxiety racking her body.

"Milady," came Lottie's voice from the southernmost door. "May I come in?"

"Oh. Of course," Emilynne replied, snapping herself from her daze. She whisked her hand away from the candelabra, careful not to burn herself, and sat upright on her bed, smoothing the creases from her dress.

Lottie bumbled into the room, positively buzzing with energy. Her stout legs carried her swiftly to Emilynne's bedside; her eyes twinkled with an enraptured light. Lottie exuded warm energy, and Emilynne could not help herself from a small smile in return; the woman was simply too alive, too kind and joyful. Lottie wasted no time whisking Emilynne to her feet, where she promptly set to work on fixing her messy hair. She combed her fingers through the tangled tresses, loosened knots and plucked bobby pins from their holding places. Wavy locks tumbled down Emilynne's back in streams, falling from her bun one by one.

"Milady, have you ever thought of wearing your hair down? It's very pretty, if I do say so m'self."

"I've never much liked how I look with my hair down... But by your suggestion, perhaps I will," she said softly, entertaining Lottie's idea. "I trust you."

"High praise, milady! I aim to please, and I trust this will not disappoint!" Lottie chirped as she twirled a stray lock of hair idly around her finger. "Let me just get a brush and I'll set to work on this."

Emilynne tried to disguise her lack of hope with a smile as Lottie rummaged through her dresser, moving aside mirrors and hairpins and - was that a dead flower? She shook her head, gently moving it as she searched through the troves of items. At last, she came upon Emilynne's brush, and her lips curled into a plucky smile as she turned back towards the young mistress and brandished her tool like a weapon of war.

"Here we are!"

"How you managed to find it in that mess is beyond me. I do apologize," said a sheepish Emilynne. "I need to organize my belongings."

"I would be glad to give you a hand with that. Now, then. I spied a flower in there, milady," Lottie murmured, taking to Emilynne's unruly hair with the brush. "Was that from your Willis?"

"It was."

"You should put it somewhere safer, milady. I fear it will get crushed in that drawer there."

"Yes, that's likely. But I put it there with intent of not looking at it. It's my subtle reminder he will always be part of my life, but I needn't make a point of it. Else how am I to move on?"

Lottie hummed, dragging the bristles through another lengthy strand of pink hair. "I believe you already have, milady. If you don't mind my saying so."

"Can anyone ever truly move on from such a tragedy?"

"As best we can, milady."

As best we can. She sighed, allowed her eyes to droop closed as Lottie tugged and prodded at her hair. It was dangerous to stew in her own thoughts much longer, but she had precious little other places to go. So she cornered herself in her own mind, thinking, thinking.

Downstairs, she heard the rancorous chatter of the first of the guests to arrive, and her stomach dropped.

This was happening.


	19. XIX: Defiance of the Heart

The influx of guests was steady - too steady.

Lords and ladies arrived in bickering parties of three to four, each individual sporting his or her most lavish outfit. The halls and ballroom filled up quickly, home now to strangers of Mothers' invitation - people Emilynne was likely expected to rub elbows with. This was a ball with only the wealthiest, most eloquent of attendees, each of whom was dressed to the nines, and Emilynne felt quite bare in her own garment.

Still, she supposed this was as close to princess-like as she would ever get. Lottie had worked her magic to the full extent. She had started with her hair, taking the top layer and braiding it back, where it hung over free-flowing tresses that spilled across her shoulders in great, bouncy curls. She had rummaged through her wardrobe in its entirety, picked out an outfit that complimented the dark, smokey hue of Emilynne's irises, and colored her lips red with some makeup she had been hiding away from Mother. When all was said and done, Emilynne looked quite like a different person. She examined herself carefully in her mirror, turning from side to side, tilting her head in all different angles. Yes, she looked presentable. This would do.

She made her way down the spiral staircase slowly, hoisting her dress to ankle height to ensure she wouldn't trip over the flounces. While she found it to be a rather pretty garment, she worried it was not nearly enough to fit in with these ridiculously wealthy folk that littered the floors like a horde of ants. Where their dresses were slender, tight-fitting, hers was loose and flowy, much more juvenile. Still, it was fancy. The dress was two layers, the innermost of which was only able to be seen from the front. It was a black silk, while the second layer, which comprised the sides and back of the dress, was a becoming carmine. The bodice was black, laced with matching crimson strings, the shoulder pieces black with embroidered red flowers. Roses, she supposed. Altogether, especially with her black silken gloves, it was darker than her usual wear; it made her skin seem starkly pale, the red undertones in her cheeks bursting forth like explosions.

She arrived at the foot of the stairs just as the Duke walked in, and Emilynne brought a hand to her cheek to shield her face from his view. With hurry in her step, she fled to the right, towards the study, where she hoped she would be able to reside in peace before the Undertaker showed up.

_If_ he showed up.

"Oh, there you are, Emilynne."

Mother. The woman hastened to her daughter's side, floating ever so elegantly across the polished marble with her long, thin legs and perfect stride. "You look positively dreadful."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Darling, please. You know I don't mean that in a rude way." _Of course, Mother. There's so many other ways to take that._ "You really need to get more sleep, my dear. You look akin to a corpse. Is that what draws your little undertaker to you?"

"Mother!" Emilynne gasped, hand flying to her chest in a display of hurt as her brows knit defensively. Mother was known to say harsh things, but even for her, this seemed unnecessarily cruel.

"Darling, I'm only stating what I see. I _don't _like that you invited him here." She folded her arms across her chest; her almond eyes narrowed dangerously. Emilynne felt a tension settle over the room, though she doubted any of the guests could sense it too.

"Mother, I meant no disrespect. I thought you should get a chance to know him," she explained, carefully picking her way around her words. "He's quite nice."

"Yes, and so is the Duke. Which is why I invited him for you. I'm sure you'll be pleased to note he no longer has the mustache that you have so _adamantly _expressed your dislike of."

"And you think that will win me over?" Emilynne asked, voice sharp - sharper than she had intended. Rage bubbled in her pacifist veins, overtaking her like a virulent toxin. Her hands shook. "Mother, I don't care for him. This is a fact. I will never care for him. You cannot force my hand like some - some _brute, _using me like a piece of meat. I am no bargaining chip for wealth! You of all people should know what it's like to want freedom! Please, Mother, just listen to me-"

Collision. It peppered her skin with pain. She barely registered the searing of her left cheek, but when she did, she had to bite her tongue to fend off tears.

"Dear, I'm _sorry_." Her tone was harsh; her patience was thin. "But thinking like that will only get you hurt. Now, I expect you to dance with the Duke tonight. I _will _be watching."

And with that, Mother gathered her composure, put on a smile, and sashayed back out into the fray, greeting guests with laughter and gentle touches on the arm, yes, _so _good to see you too, Countess.

Emilynne rubbed her cheek, which was now beginning to throb with the force of Mother's hand.

This was not shaping up to be a pleasant evening.

*****

Emilynne withered away the rest of her time in the study, sipping wine and peering out the window far too eagerly in hopes of spotting the familiar silver hair and drab garb that could only be the Undertaker. With each passing guest, each deliriously slow minute, she grew more and more dejected, wondering if truly she had said too much and scared him off. Could that be possible? For certain, she thought he was interested in her - but maybe he was a coward after all. Maybe, unlike her, he wasn't keen on challenging society. Maybe he would rather go with the flow and disappear into the crowd like everyone else.

She slumped into her chair, glass dangling from her hand quite precariously. Red wine threatened to spill onto the ornate rug; she had half a mind to care.

"Milady?"

She dropped the glass.

"Oh, is that me fault? So sorry, so sorry, ehehe."

"U-Undertaker," she stammered, face the very picture of shock. Her eyes were wide, searching, flitting from the sanguine stain spreading across the rug to the now-chipped glass to the Undertaker's smiling mien. When had he arrived? Was it in the lapse of time she wasn't staring out the window like a lost puppy? She blinked quickly, vexed. "What are you- How did you-"

"Milady. Did you truly think I wouldn't come?"

She swallowed hard. It was starting - the nervous shaking, the pounding heartbeat. The influx of heat to her already-crimson cheeks. "Yes."

"That hurts me heart."

"I- I'm sorry? But you should think about how my heart feels! About all of this, about this- this _game _we're playing! About how unladylike I've had to be just to tell you my feelings. Are you so dense that you couldn't see it? Or act yourself? Really, I've half a mind to still fancy you."

He shook with a peal of laughter. "Milady. You are so dear to me." 

"As are you!" She stood suddenly, the force of her rising knocking the chair momentarily off its legs. Her fingers curled into fists, clenched tight at her sides; her body was quivering, eyes intense and mouth set into a flat line. "So you can't possibly understand the heartache I've gone through over you!" A shaky step forward, then another. Magnetic forces lured her to him - angry magnetic forces.

"Milady-"

"Hush, you! I haven't said my part yet. I've suffered this whole evening over your cowardice and indecisiveness and-"

And her mind went blank. _Everything _went blank. Wind generated by motion whipped her hair around her shoulders; rough, scratchy fabric tickled at the exposed skin of her arms. She could no longer see, vision obscured by a mess of dense silver bangs, but she could _feel _\- feel the warmth Undertaker's tall, lean body exuded, feel the pull of his hands on her shoulders, steadying her swaying body.

Feel the soft, yet fervent pressure of his lips against her own.

Her skin blossomed at his touch, lurid; every fiber of her nerves was firing, exploding into life. She no longer saw the world in shapes; she saw it in colors, saw the vibrant red thread weaving around the two of them, saw stars and feathers and flower petals falling. Seconds dragged by in a slow infinity, each a tar-covered footstep into the unknown. Emilynne felt the need to force herself away, terrified by the rushing of adrenaline and the hammering of her heart in its desolate chamber. But she did not get the chance, for as soon as it began it was over, Undertaker giggling as he drew back and idly twirled his braid about his lithe fingers.

"A coward, am I, milady?"

"U-un-" she stuttered, stuck between saying_ 'Undertaker'_ and _'unfair.' _"U-unacceptable! That's hardly fair. You- you- you _brute!"_ But despite her protest she was smiling with her eyes, and soon she was breaking out into a paroxysm of laughter, cheeks flushing a harsh red from the expended force. The situation was so ridiculous it seemed unreal, and she could do little else but laugh, consumed by joy and horror at the same time. She quite wished she could capture this moment, pluck it out of the air and stick it in a jar to place on her shelf and keep forever. But she couldn't. So she laughed with all her heart, chasing the feeling as far as she could.

"My heart feels like it's going to burst. Do you know how long I've waited for that?"

"A lifetime, milady."

"Yes."

He chuckled, tipped his head sideways as he offered an apologetic smile. His bangs had shifted ever so slightly in all the commotion, just enough for Emilynne to see the twinkle in his eyes, and once more her heart swelled. He had waited for this moment too. He did care.

She felt considerably more at ease. 

"Would you- would you dance with me?" she asked, with the shortage of her usual aplomb.

"Milady?"

Emilynne idly tugged at the fingers of her gloves, thumbing over the stitching. The action betrayed her nervousness, which beggared away her mien of a self-assured lady. She stood, quite plainly, a shy woman requesting naught but a chance. "Dance with me, Undertaker."

A brief silence. The red thread wound itself tighter around her throat.

"A thousand times yes, Em."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A/N this sucks sorry i'll probably rework this later ]


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